REPRESENTATIVE  ONE-ACT 
PLAYS  BY  AMERICAN 
AUTHORS-    UNjy. 


SELECTED,  WITH  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 
BY 

MARGARET  GARDNER  MAYORGA,   M.A. 


BOSTON 
LITTLE,   BROWN,  AND  COMPANY 

1927 


/H73 

r 


Copyright,  1919, 
BY  LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY. 


n'grAto  reserved 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


DEDICATED 
TO  MY  MOTHER 


75351.9 


PREFACE 

THIS  collection  contains  twenty-four  of  the  most  significant 
one-act  plays  of  the  Little  Theatre  movement  in  America. 
Some  of  them  have  not  been  previously  printed ;  others  have 
been  out  of  print  for  some  time  or  are  inaccessible.  I  have 
made  the  collection  in  the  hope  that  by  bringing  them  to 
gether  in  one  volume  they  will  not  be  immediately  lost. 
Although  the  war  has  for  a  moment  scattered  many  of  the 
Little  Theatres  and  stunted  the  growth  of  the  new  play  form, 
it  is  because  the  art  is  now  at  a  pause  that  it  may  be  more 
easily  surveyed. 

While  there  are  many  who  believe  that  one-act  plays  are 
more  or  less  frivolous  and  ought  to  be  enjoyed  rather  than 
analyzed,  I  have  taken  the  liberty,  in  this  collection,  of  being 
serious.  Too  often  the  frothy  one-act  play  has  been  ex 
ploited  and  the  sincere  effort  overlooked,  but  it  is  indeed  true 
that  beneath  the  movement  as  a  whole  there  exists  a  purpose 
worthy  of  serious  consideration. 

During  the  last  few  years,  both  here  and  abroad,  there  has 
been  discussion  of  the  one-act  play  which  has  been  feeling 
toward  the  establishment  of  the  one-act  form  as  a  new  and 
distinct  type.  The  few  who  have  written  about  it  are  agreed 
that  the  one-act  play  is  properly  analogous  to  the  short-story, 
that  it  is  quite  as  rigid  a  form,  and  that  it  is  as  different  a  type 
from  the  longer  play  as  the  short-story  is  from  the  novel.  It 
cannot,  if  a  good  one-act  play,  be  either  expanded  into  three 
acts  or  condensed  from  the  longer  play  without  a  loss.  Be 
cause  of  this  integrity,  the  one-act  play  is  an  art  form,  tend 
ing  toward  a  perfect  whole,  and  therein  lies  its  contrast  to  the 
playlet  of  vaudeville  and  to  the  curtain  raiser.  The  one-act 

vii 


viii  PREFACE 


play  is  not  the  familiar  vaudeville  sketch ;  upon  this  point 
the  vaudeville  managers  are  quite  as  insistent  as  are  the 
managers  of  the  Little  Theatres.  The  vaudeville  managers 
have  been  extremely  wary  of  the  intrusion  of  the  new 
type.  In  return,  the  managers  of  the  Little  Theatres  have 
had  small  desire  to  produce  the  vaudeville  playlets. 

But  to  understand  the  new  play  one  must  know  something 
of  the  theatres  which  have  cultivated  it :  the  so-called  "Little 
Theatres."  To  the  uninitiated  the  term  is  vague,  and  even 
those  who  are  acquainted  with  it  use  it  more  or  less  loosely. 
Speaking  generally,  the  Little  Theatre  may  be  said  to  be  an 
organization  of  earnest  workers  interested  more  in  the  future 
of  the  drama  than  in  their  own  pecuniary  gains.  The  size 
of  the  theatre  is  of  no  vital  consideration,  although  it  happens 
that  the  type  of  drama  which  is  now  prevalent  can  be  most 
successfully  presented  in  a  small  playhouse.  Specifically, 
the  Little  Theatres  are  those  small  playhouses  which  are 
dotting  the  land  from  coast  to  coast,  termed  variously : 
amateur,  social,  community,  but  more  often  "Little", 
and  in  which  some  local  company  produces  at  regular  inter 
vals  and  with  a  sincere  purpose  its  repertory  of  plays.  There 
are  the  private  clubs,  such  as  the  Plays  and  Players  of 
Philadelphia ;  private  theatres,  such  as  the  Bramhall  Play 
house  of  New  York ;  high  school  organizations,  such  as  Our 
Little  Theatre  of  South  Bend,  Indiana;  college  workshops, 
as  at  Harvard;  theatre  societies  (without  a  box  office),  such 
as  the  Provincetown  Players ;  theatre  workshops,  such  as 
the  New  York  organization  of  that  name;  Little  Theatres 
nominally  and  little  theatres  in  size.  Since  the  first  venture 
of  1906  there  have  arisen  some  eighty  of  them.1  More  often 
than  not  these  companies  produce  the  one-act  play,  both 
because  it  is  more  easily  sustained  than  a  longer  play  of 
corresponding  aim,  and  because  it  is  an  experiment  on  a 
smaller  scale.  In  spite  of  the  fact  that  many  of  the  plays 

1  For  a  list  of  these,  see  Appendix  of  Constance  D'  Arcy  Mackay  :  "  Little 
Theatres  in  the  United  States  ",  and  Appendix  of  Thomas  H.  Dickinson  : 
"The  Insurgent  Theatre." 


PREFACE  ix 


have  been  handicapped  by  crude  scenery  and  cruder  acting, 
some  have  emerged  full  of  promise  for  the  one-act  form. 

In  making  the  selection  for  this  volume,  I  have  made  no 
attempt  to  include  only  the  best  one-act  plays ;  such  a  col 
lection  would  need  to  exclude  many  which,  in  aim  if  not  in 
execution,  are  exceedingly  significant.  For  in  a  new  move 
ment  we  are  interested  far  more  in  the  potentiality  of  growth 
than  in  the  first  offspring,  however  perfect  some  of  the  first 
may  be. 

But  in  tracing  the  veins  of  development,  I  encountered  the 
necessity  of  inventing  in  some  places  a  new  terminology. 
Although  connotations  will  immediately  present  themselves 
to  many,  some  further  definition  may  not  be  amiss.  The 
term  "dramatic  episode"  has  hitherto  been  variously  used, 
but  never  to  designate  a  distinct  type ;  the  term  "impression 
istic  episode  "  has  not  been  previously  employed. 

I  have  used  ^dramatic  episode"  to  designate  the  play 
which  presents  a  single  and  complete  static  situation,  as  op 
posed  to  the  tragedy  or  the  comedy  which  presents  a  series  of 
situations  or  the  developing  situation  \  In  the  Zone  is  an 
example  of  the  type.  It  presents  ofte  complete  episode  in 
the  passage  of  a  tramp  steamer  through  the  war  zone.  The 
play  opens  upon  a  group  of  sailors  assembled  in  the  fore 
castle  and  closes  upon  the  same  group.  Although  each  man 
has  added  another  experience  to  his  life  during  the  progress 
of  the  play,  he  is  essentially  the  same  person  when  the  cur 
tain  falls  as  he  was  when  it  arose.  (There  has  been  no  develop 
ment  of  character.  Similarly,  the  action  of  the  group  is  no 
farther  advanced  at  the  end  of  the  play  than  it  was  at  the 
beginning.  It  is  conceivable  that  the  entire  episode  might 
recur.  The  play  is  not  one  of  development,  but  of  exposition^ 
/In  the  same  manner  the  "impressionistic  episode"  is  a  play 
of  exposition,  but  it  differs  from  the  "dramatic  episode" 
in  that  it  is  subjective  where  the  "dramatic  episode"  is 
objective.  It  is  the  play  of  mood;  it  is  the  "dramatic 
episode"  shown  to  us  through  the  personality  of  the  author. 
The  other  terms  are  familiarly  employed  and  need  no  explana- 


PREFACE 


tion,  although  it  might  prove  wise  to  mention  that  I  have 
used  "fantasy"  rigidly  for  the  play  which  tends  to  the 
dominance  of  fancy,  and  "poetic  drama*',  whether  in  verse 
or  prose,  for  the  play  of  imagination. 

The  classification  represents  every  type  of  play  which  has 
been  produced  in  the  Little  Theatres,  and  the  space  devoted 
to  each  type  in  the  volume  is  approximate  to  its  importance 
in  Little  Theatre  history.  The  arrangement  of  grouping  was 
necessitated  by  the  aim  to  represent  types  rather  than 
theatres  or  sections  of  the  country,  and  has  no  reason  in  its 
arrangement  other  than  that  it  seemed  to  be  psychological. 
The  plays  have  all  been  produced  by  Little  Theatres  in  this 
country,  some  many  times ;  and  probably  there  is  no  Little 
Theatre  audience  which  will  not  immediately  recognize  at 
least  one  of  its  own  plays. 

It  is  to  be  hoped  that  the  selection  may  in  some  way  give 
satisfaction  to  the  generous  friends  who  have  so  kindly 
helped  in  its  compilation.  Authors  have  willingly  sent  plays 
for  my  perusal;  managers  and  producers  have  everywhere 
helped  me  to  find  the  authors.  But  particularly  am  I  in 
debted  to  those  whose  plays  are  here  included.  I  have  to 
thank  the  New  York  centre  of  the  Drama  League,  among 
others,  for  the  opportunity  it  gave  me  of  reading  rare  and 
scattered  publications.  Special  acknowledgment  must  be 
made  to  the  publishers,  and  especially  to  Mr.  Roland  Holt, 
for  their  permissions  to  reprint  —  without  which  the  book 
would  not  have  been  possible.  For  valuable  suggestions  I  am 
indebted  to  Mr.  Clayton  Hamilton  and  Mr.  D.  L.  Clark  of 
Columbia  University,  Dr.  Edgar  A.  Hall  and  Mr.  Emory 
Holloway  of  Adelphi  College,  Miss  Rica  Brenner  and  Miss 
Gertrude  A.  Smith.  My  personal  gratitude  must  further 
extend  to  all  those  whose  single  acts  have  brought  this  work 
to  its  completion. 

M.  G.  M. 
JUNO,  1919. 


CONTENTS 


PREFACE         

THE  ONE-ACT  PLAY 

ffantasg 

SAM  AVERAGE.     Percy  Mackaye 

Six  WHO  PASS  WHILE  THE  LENTILS  BOIL. 


Stuart  Walker 


poetic  Drama 

"  VOICES."     Hortense  Flexner    .... 
THE  MERRY  MERRY  CUCKOO.     Jeanette  Marks 

Impressionistic  SpisoDe 

SINTRAM  OF  SKAGERRAK.  Soda  Cowan  . 
WILL  o'  THE  WISP.  Doris  F.  Halman  . 
"BEYOND."  Alice  Gerstenberg 

ot  ITDeas 

A  GOOD  WOMAN.     George  Middleton 
FUNICULI  FUNICULA.     Rita  Wellman 


HUNGER.     Eugene  Pillot 

Dramatic  Episode 

IN  THE  ZONE.     Eugene  G.  O'Neill 
THE  BRINK  OF  SILENCE.     Esther  E.  Galbraith    . 
ALLISON'S  LAD.     Beulah  Marie  Dix  » 

MRS.  PAT  AND  THE  LAW.     Mary  Aldis 

farce 

LIMA  BEANS.     Alfred  Kreymborg 

THE   WONDER   HAT.     Ben   Hecht   and    Kenneth    Sawyer 
Goodman        *  


PACK 

vii 
xiii 

3 
21 

51 
61 

77 

93 

111 

121 
137 

157 

175 
201 
213 
231 

251 
269 


xii  CONTENTS 


Satire 
•    SUPPRESSED   DESIRES.     George    Cram    Cook   and   Susan 

GlaspeU  .        ..        .......     299 

»  WHERE  BUT  IN  AMERICA.    Oscar  M.  Wolff       .        .        .    323 


t    A  QUESTION  OF  MORALITY.    Percival  Wilde      .        .        .  341 

MARTHA'S  MOURNING.    Phoebe  Hoffman  ...        .  357 

RYLAND.     Thomas    Wood   Stevens   and   Kenneth   Sawyer 

Goodman         .        .        .        .  371 


THE  LAST  STRAW.    Bosworth  Crocker        ....    397 
HATTIE.     Elva  De  Pue       .......    419 

jflBcloDrama 

DREGS.     Frances  Pemberton  Spencer          ....    439 

Bppenfcfr 

BIBLIOGRAPHIES  : 

1.  The  Little  Theatre  Movement          .      •  ,        .  .     453 

2.  The  One-Act  Play     .         .         .         .'      .         .  .453 

3.  Bibliographies  of  One-Act  Plays        .B     .         .  .     454 

4.  Selective    List    of    Available    One-Act    Plays  by 

American  Authors  455 


•n 
f 


A 


THE  ONE-ACT   PLAY 

FTER  the  manner  of  the  short-story,  the  one-act  play 

may  be  spelled  with  the  hyphen,  for  the  form  has 

developed  certain  compact  qualities  during  the  last  twenty- 
five  years  which  make  it j  seem  to  parallel  the  short-story 
form. 

The  one-act  play,  however,  is  not  new.  Short  plays, 
like  tales,  have  always  existed,  although  the  short  humorous 
play  shows  a  continuous  development  which  the  short 
serious  play  lacks.  Indeed,  it  is  possible  to  trace  back  the 
one-act  farce  as  far  as  the  Commedia  dell'  arte,  and  probably, 
although  the  intervening  history  may  involve  more  or  less 
conjecture,  even  to  the  "satyric"  play  of  the  Greeks.  In 
the  Commedia  dell'  arte,  at  least,  the  skits  and  pranks  of 
Harlequin,  Punchinello,  and  their  companions  were  pre 
sented  in  a  short  farcical  form.  In  fact,  the  Commedia 
dell'  arte  consisted  almost  entirely  of  one-act  farces.  From 
Italy  the  farce  passed  to  Spain  and  France,  from  France 
to  Germany  and  to  England,  and  thence,  finally,  to  America. 
Among  the  one-act  plays  of  the  Little  Theatre  to-day  is 
found  the  direct  descendant  of  the  form. 

From  the  one-act  farce  the  short  comedy  arose.  It 
may  have  developed  because  of  the  fact  that  Moliere  could 
not  write  a  farce  without  basing  it  upon  life,  and  that  he 
occasionally  wrote  plays  of  one  act.  However  that  may 
be,  the  one-act  plays  of  Moliere  are  the  first  to  show  the 
comedy  spirit.  Among  his  contemporaries  was  Noel  Haute- 
roche,  whose  one-act  plays,  which  were  truly  more  comic 
than  farcical,  were  among  the  earliest  to  be  generally  recog 
nized  and  used  in  the  Comedie  (1672).  His  work,  although 

xiii 


xiv  THE  ONE-ACT  PLAY 

it  shows  the  strong  influence  of  the  old  farce,  is  based  pri 
marily  upon  French  life.  After  Hauteroche,  La  Fontaine 
further  developed  the  one-act  comedy,  and  after  him  there 
follows  a  long  line — Dancourt,  Dufresny,  Le  Grand,  Le  Sage, 
Lafont,  Destouches,  Boissy,  and  others,  to  the  present  time 
—  all  of  whom  have  used  the  one-act  form  as  a  comic  type. 

England,  too,  has  had  a  definite  one-act  humorous  play, 
beginning  probably  with  Haywood's  Interludes  and  extend 
ing  through  Robert  Cox's  Drolleries  to  Lacy's  British  Drama 
and  the  curtain  raisers  of  the  present  day.  In  Germany 
also,  and  in  Spain  particularly,  there  has  been  a  correspond 
ingly  continuous  development  of  the  short  humorous  form. 

The  serious  play  of  one  act,  however,  fails  to  show  such 
continuous  development.  Its  appearance,  until  the  latter 
part  of  the  nineteenth  century,  has  been  sporadic.  The 
reason  for  this  may  be  found  in  the  fact  that  formerly  the 
shorter  form  was  not  held  in  such  high  repute  as  the  longer, 
but  was  considered  well  enough  for  buffoonery  which  would 
tire  were  it  extended,  or  for  humorous  dialogue  which  con 
tained  little  action  and  of  which  the  dramatic  possibilities 
were  soon  exhausted.  In  its  early  form  it  might  be  likened 
to  the  conversational  sketch  with  sometimes  incidental 
horse  play  between  two  people  of  our  vaudeville  stage. 
In  proportion  as  the  short  form  had  come  to  be  associated 
with  the  slap-stick  drama,  it  was  considered  not  a  serious 
form,  nor  the  most  worthy. 

Although  there  did  develop  a  short  religious  drama,  this 
arose  from  the  people,  and  was  looked  upon  rather  as  a  form 
of  religion  than  of  art.  This  drama  included  the  mysteries, 
miracle  plays,  moralities,  and  passion  plays  which  grew 
up  from  the  primitive  soil  of  all  nations.  These  plays 
constituted,  moreover,  a  growth  and  a  death  in  themselves, 
and  show  no  extraneous  development.  There  were  also 
the  short  and  serious  school  plays  of  England  and  of  Hol 
land,  but  neither  did  these  foster  a  continuous  one-act 
drama.  Although  throughout  the  nineteenth  century  there 
were  sporadic  appearances  in  England  of  a  one-act  play  which 


THE   ONE-ACT  PLAY  xv 

was  not  comic  —  a  romantic  drama,  a  historic  drama,  a 
dramatic  sketch  —  present  records  show  that  scarcely  one 
a  year  was  produced  during  the  century.  Should  future 
research  bring  to  light  even  several  times  that  many,  it 
could  not  be  said  that  the  serious  one-act  play  was  a  devel 
oped  type.  The  mass  of  curtain  raisers  were  farce,  comedy, 
travesty,  extravaganza,  burlesque,  burletta,  comic  opera, 
operetta,  and  comedietta.  Nor  was  the  serious  one- 
act  play  which  did  exist  known  outside  of  England;  it 
could  not  have  influenced  France  and  Germany  in  the 
recent  development.  In  Germany,  Hans  Sachs  employed 
the  short  play,  but  his  influence  was  popular,  not  literary, 
and  it  did  not  institute  a  genre.  The  more  or  less  continuous 
serious  play  of  Spain  has  also  not  been  known  outside  of 
the  country.  Nor  have  any  of  these  nineteenth-century 
plays  in  any  country  aspired  to  a  literary  art. 

Yet  with  the  twentieth  century,  there  has  appeared  almost 
simultaneously  in  Germany,  England,  France,  and  in 
America,  a  serious  and  literary  one-act  form.  It  has  not 
been  caused  by  the  American  vaudeville  melodrama,  for 
where  this  is  either  a  patched  and  pasty  cardboard  produc 
tion  or  the  result  of  condensing  a  full-length  play  into  a 
playlet,  the  new  one-act  play  is  sufficient  unto  itself,  and 
has  for  its  purpose,  in  addition  to  dramatic  appeal,  perfection 
of  form. 

Where,  then,  was  the  inception  of  the  literary  one-act 
play,  a  form  which  Maeterlinck,  Sudermann,  Barrie,  Shaw, 
Hauptmann,  and  many  others  considered  worthy  of  their 
pens  ?  It  seems  that  some  definite  force  must  have  entered 
the  theatre  at  the  end  of  the  nineteenth  century  to  cause 
a  simultaneous  and  prolific  growth  of  such  plays  from  many 
nations,  where,  previously,  the  one-act  form  had  not  been 
thought  the  highest  type  of  drama.  In  the  short  farcical 
conversations,  humor  alone  had  been  relied  upon  to  hold 
the  attention  of  the  audience,  for  drama,  such  as  that  of 
Euripides,  Shakespeare,  Racine,  Goethe,  could  not  develop 
itself  within  the  compass  of  one  act.  But  Ibsen  brought  the 


xvi  THE  ONE-ACT  PLAY 

dramatic  idea.  An  idea,  such  a  one  as  is  the  theme  of  an 
act  of  Hauptmann's  "Weavers'*  or  of  Barker's  "Madras 
House ",  can  present  a  dramatic  development  or  a  series 
of  dramatic  developments  within  a  short  space  of  time,  and 
furthermore,  can  do  it  as  effectively  in  one  act  as  in  several. 
Accordingly,  if  the  one-act  play  embodies  an  "idea",  it 
gains  dramatic  possibilities.  By  just  such  a  substitution 
of  idea  for  mere  humor  the  one-act  play  has  been  lifted  above 
the  realm  of  farce  and  buffoonery.  It  is  improbable  that 
any  writer  or  writers  set  about  deliberately  to  dignify  the 
one-act  form ;  it  so  happens,  however,  that  whereas  what 
had  formerly  been  considered  the  best  drama  could  not 
present  itself  effectively  in  one  act,  the  newer  drama  can. 
The  fact  that  Great  Britain  has  taken  the  lead  both  in  the 
drama  of  ideas  and  in  the  serious  one-act  play  makes  it 
seem  possible  that  the  impulse  which  produced  the  one  may 
be  responsible  for  both  fields  of  endeavor. 

But  in  any  survey  of  the  one-act  play,  the  free  theatre 
must  also  be  considered.  It  is  true  that  the  free  theatre 
was  created  in  order  to  produce  the  plays  of  Ibsen  and  his 
followers,  and  probable  that  the  new  one-act  drama  has 
been  created  in  order  to  sustain  the  free  theatre.  Other 
wise  the  fact  that  the  "dramatic  idea"  had  made  the  one- 
act  form  usable  might  not  alone  account  for  its  universal 
use.  Given  an  art  theatre,  the  production  of  a  good  short 
play  is  always  preferable  to  that  of  a  poor  long  one.  With 
the  high  ideals  of  the  free  theatres  and  the  small  number 
of  plays  of  the  Ibsen  rank,  the  one-act  play  seems  the  inevi 
table  consequence. 

But  there  is  yet  another  cause  for  its  general  use.  By 
the  end  of  the  nineteenth  century  the  short-story  had  come 
to  be  a  developed  type.  However  differently  it  was  applied 
by  the  people  of  the  various  nations,  it  everywhere  fostered 
the  belief  in  a  short  form  with  a  singleness  of  impression 
for  its  purpose.  People  had  become  accustomed  to  the 
small  unit,  and  had  learned  to  admire  it.  Its  application 
in  the  field  of  drama  was  only  a  step.  On  investigation,  one 


THE  ONE-ACT  PLAY  xvii 

finds  that  many  of  the  writers  of  one-act  plays  are  also 
writers  of  short  stories. 

Local  conditions,  it  is  true,  have  had  a  great  deal  to  do 
with  the  development  of  the  one-act  form  in  each  country, 
for  although  the  impulse  was  everywhere  the  same,  the 
results  have  differed.  In  England,  for  instance,  during 
the  nineteenth  century,  the  two-act  play  had  been  more 
generally  used  than  in  other  countries;  therefore  the  step 
to  the  one-act  play  was  correspondingly  short.  In  Ireland, 
the  presence  of  a  National  Theatre  and  the  lack,  at  that 
time,  of  a  national  playwright,  called  forth  directly  a  body 
of  one-act  literature.  Germany  was  friendly  to  the  one- 
act  form  because  her  naturalistic  turn  of  mind  at  this  time 
rendered  even  her  longer  drama  episodic. 

It  is  from  the  universal  acceptance  of  the  serious  one-act 
play  as  a  new  form  that  the  desire  to  regard  the  humorous 
play  in  the  same  manner  has  arisen.  The  effect  of  this 
desire  has  been  a  remolding  of  all  the  short  plays,  whether 
they  have  been  comedy,  farce,  or  melodrama,  to  conform 
with  the  new  ideals,  so  that,  in  spite  of  their  heredity,  many 
of  these  plays  are  now  developing  toward  the  art  type. 

Because  the  development  of  the  type  is  still  transitional, 
its  history  can  hardly  yet  be  written.  Any  selection  of 
one-act  plays  at  the  present  time  must  include  many  which 
are  directly  descended  from  the  old  farce  and  are  not  really 
exponents  of  the  new  play.  But  there  must  be  enough 
of  the  new,  also,  to  prove  that  it  exists,  and  in  America, 
which  has  shown  itself  so  able  to  excel  in  the  short-story, 
the  development  of  the  one-act  play  is  significant. 


REPRESENTATIVE  ONE-ACT 
PLAYS 


SAM  AVERAGE 

PERCY  MACKAYE 

MR.  PERCY  MACKAYE  is  so  well  known  that  little 
be  said  of  him  here.  He  was  born  in  New  York  on  March 
16,  1875,  of  a  family  which  had  already  wen  lyurels  tor 
itself  in  drama.  His  father,  Steele  MacKaye,  wrote  some 
twenty-five  plays  in  about  the  same  number  of  years,  and 
the  son,  Percy,  has  written  more  than  twenty-five  in  four 
teen  years. 

Mr.  MacKaye  was  educated  at  Harvard  University,  and 
later  studied  at  the  University  of  Leipzig.  Dartmouth 
College  conferred  upon  him  the  honorary  degree  of  Master 
of  Arts  in  1914.  He  has  traveled  extensively  in  Europe, 
residing  a  different  times  at  Rome,  Brunnen  (Switzerland), 
Leipzig,  and  London.  From  1900  to  1904  he  taught  in  a 
private  school  in  New  York.  But  since  that  time  he  has 
been  engaged  entirely  in  dramatic  art.  He  is  a  member 
of  the  National  Institute  of  Arts  and  Letters. 

Mr.  MacKaye's  efforts  in  the  dramatic  field  have  been 
varied.  He  has  to  his  credit  masques,  pageants,  operas, 
as  well  as  plays ;  and  he  is,  in  addition,  an  able  lecturer  and 
contributor  to  magazines.  His  works  are:  "A  Garland 
to  Sylvia",  "The  Canterbury  Pilgrims",  "The  Scarecrow", 
"Fenris  the  Wolf",  "Jeanne  D'Arc",  "Sappho  and  Phaon", 
"Mater",  "Anti-Matrimony",  "Tomorrow",  "Yankee  Fan 
tasies"  (five  one-act  plays),  "A  Thousand  Years  Ago", 
" Saint-Gaudens  Masque,  Prologue",  Gloucester  Pageant, 
Pittsburgh  Pageant,  "Sanctuary"  (a  Bird  Masque),  Saint 


SAM  AVERAGE 


Louis  Masque,  "The  New  Citizenship",  "Caliban",  "Sin- 
bad,  The  Sailor",  "The  Immigrants",  "The  Canterbury 
Pilgrims",  "Washington,  the  Man  Who  Made  Us." 

Of  his  "Yankee  Fantasies",  "Sam  Average"  is  perhaps 
the  most  popular. 


SAM  AVERAGE 

A  SILHOUETTE 


BY  PERCY  MACKAYE 


"Sam  Average"   was   originally   produced   at    the  Toy 
Theatre,  Boston,  on  February  26,  1912. 

Original  Cast 

ANDREW Mr.  Freedley 

JOEL Mr.  Bunker 

ELLEN Miss  Lingard 

SAM  AVERAGE  Mr.  Menard 


COFYBIQHT,  1912,  BY  PERCY  MACKAYE. 

All  rights  reserved. 


Reprinted  from  "  Yankee  Fantasies  "  by  permission  of  and  special  arrangement  with 
Percy  MacKaye  and  Duffield  and  Company,  New  York  City. 

Application  for  the  right  of  performing  "Sam  Average"  must  be  made  to  Percy 
MacKaye,  Cornish,  New  Hampshire ;  Post-office,  Windsor,  Vermont. 

No  performance  of  this  play,  professional  or  amateur,  — or  public  reading  of  it  — 
may  be  given  without  the  written  permission  of  the  author  and  the  payment  of  royalty. 


SAM  AVERAGE 

SCENE.  An  intrenchment  in  Canada,  near  Niagara  Falls, 
in  the  year  1814-  Night,  shortly  before  dawn. 

On  the  right,  the  dull  glow  of  a  smouldering  wood-fire  ruddies 
the  earthen  embankment,  the  low-stretched  outline  of  which 
forms,  with  darkness,  the  scenic  background. 

Near  the  centre,  left,  against  the  dark,  a  flag  with  stars  floats 
from  its  standard. 

Beside  the  fire,  ANDREW,  reclined,  gazes  at  a  small  frame  in 
his  hand;  near  him  is  a  knapsack,  with  contents  emptied 
beside  it. 

On  the  embankment,  JOEL,  with  a  gun,  paces  back  and  forth, 
a  blanket  thrown  about  his  shoulders. 
JOEL  (with  a  singing  call).     Four  o'clock  !  —  All  's  well ! 

[Jumping  down  from  the  embankment,  he  approaches  the  fire. 
ANDREW.     By  God,  Joel,  it  's  bitter. 
JOEL  (rubbing  his  hands  over  the  coals).     A  mite  sharpish. 
ANDREW  (looks  up  eagerly) .     What  ? 
JOEL.     Cuts  sharp,  for  Thanksgivin'. 

ANDREW  (sinks  back,  gloomily).     Oh!     (A   pause)     I   won 
dered  you  should  agree  with  me.    You  meant  the  weather. 

I  meant  — 

[A  pause  again. 

JOEL.     Well,  Andy  :  what  'd  you  mean  ? 
ANDREW.     Life. 
JOEL.     Shucks ! 
ANDREW  (to  himself) .     Living  ! 

JOEL  (sauntering  over  left,  listens) .     Hear  a  rooster  crow  ? 
ANDREW.     No.     What  are  you  doing  ? 
JOEL.     Tiltin'  the  flag  over  crooked  in  the  dirt. 

signal. 


8  SAM  AVERAGE 


ANDREW.  Nothing  could  be  more  appropriate,  unless  we 
buried  it  —  buried  it  in  the  dirt ! 

JOEL.  She  's  to  find  us  where  the  flag  's  turned  down.  I 
fixed  that  with  the  sergeant  all  right.  The  rooster  crowin' 
's  her  watch-word  for  us. 

ANDREW.     An  eagle  screaming,  Joel :  that  would  have  been 
better.     (Rising)  —  Ah  ! 
[He  laughs  painfully. 

JOEL.  Hush  up,  Andy!  The  nearest  men  ain't  two  rods 
away.  You  '11  wake  'em.  Pitch  it  low. 

ANDREW.     Don't  be  alarmed.     I  'm  coward  enough. 

JOEL.  'Course,  though,  there  ain't  much  danger.  I  'm  sen 
tinel  this  end,  and  the  sergeant  has  the  tip  at  t'other. 
Besides,  you  may  call  it  the  reg'lar  thing.  There  's  been 
two  thousand  deserters  already  in  this  tuppenny-ha'penny 
war,  and  none  on  'em  the  worse  off.  When  a  man  don't 
get  his  pay  for  nine  months  —  well,  he  ups  and  takes  his 
vacation :  why  not  ?  When  Nell  joins  us,  we  '11  hike  up 
the  Niagara,  cross  over  to  Tonawanda  and  take  our  break 
fast  in  Buffalo.  By  that  time,  the  boys  here  will  be  marchin' 
away  toward  Lundy's  Lane. 

ANDREW  (walks  back  and  forth,  shivering).     I  'm  afraid. 

JOEL.     'Fraid  ?     Bosh ! 

ANDREW.     I  'm  afraid  to  face  — 

JOEL.     Face  what  ?  —  We  won't  get  caught. 

ANDRSW.     Your  sister  —  my  wife. 

JOEL.  Nell !  —  Why,  ain't  she  comin'  here  just  a-purpose  to 
get  you  ?  Ain't  there  reason  enough,  Lord  knows  ?  Ain't 
you  made  up  your  mind  to  light  out  home  anyhow  ? 

ANDREW.  Yes ;  that 's  just  what  she  '11  never  forgive  me  for. 
In  her  heart  she  '11  never  think  of  me  the  same.  For  she 
knows  as  well  as  I  what  pledge  I  '11  be  breaking  —  what 
sacred  pledge. 

JOEL.     What  you  mean  ? 

ANDREW.     No  matter,  no  matter :  this  is  gush. 

[He  returns  to  the  fire  and  begins  to  fumble  over  the  contents 
of  his  knapsack.     Joel  watches  him  idly. 


SAM  AVERAGE 


JOEL.     One  of  her  curls  ? 

ANDREW  (Booking  at  a  lock  of  hair,  in  the  firelight) .     No ;   the 

baby's,  little  Andy's.     Some  day  they'll  tell  him  how  his 

father  - 

[He  winces,  and  puts  the  lock  away. 
JOEL  (going  toward  the  embankment) .     Listen  ! 
ANDREW  (ties  up  the  package,  muttering') .     Son  of  a  traitor  ! 
JOEL  (tiptoeing  back).     It  's  crowed.  —  That  's  her. 

[Leaping  to  his  feet,  Andrew  stares  toward  the  embankment 

where  the  flag  is  dipped;   then  turns  his  back  to  it,  closing 

his  eyes  and  gripping  his  hands. 

After  a  pause,  silently  the  figure  of  a  YOUNG  WOMAN  emerges 

from  the  dark  and  stands  on  the  embankment.     She  is  bare 
headed  and  ill-clad. 

Joel  touches  Andrew,  who  turns  and  looks  toward  her. 

Silently,  she  steals  down  to  him  and  they  embrace. 
ANDREW.     My  Nell ! 
ELLEN.     Nearly  a  year  — 
ANDREW.     Now,  at  last ! 
ELLEN.     Hold  me  close,  Andy. 
ANDREW.     You  're  better  ? 
ELLEN.     Let 's  forget  —  just  for  now. 
ANDREW.     Is  he  grown  much  ? 
ELLEN.     Grown  ?  —  You  should  see  him  !     But  so  ill :  What 

could  I  do  ?     You  see  — 
ANDREW.     I  know,  I  know. 
ELLEN.     The  money  was  all  gone.     They  turned  me  out  at 

the  old  place,  and  then  — 
ANDREW.     I  know,  dear. 

ELLEN.     I  got  sewing,  but  when  the  smallpox  — 
ANDREW.     I  have  all  your  letters,  Nell.     Come,  help  me  to 

pack. 

ELLEN.     What !  You  're  really  decided  - 
JOEL  (approaching) .     Hello,  Sis  ! 
ELLEN  (absently) .     Ah,  Joel :  that  you  ? 

(Eagerly,  following  Andrew  to  the  knapsack) 

But  my  dear  — 


10  SAM  AVERAGE 


ANDREW.     Just  these  few  things,  and  we  're  off. 

ELLEN  (agitated) .     Wait ;   wait !     You  don't  know  yet  why 

I  've  come  —  instead  of  writing. 
ANDREW.     I  can  guess. 
ELLEN.     But  you  can't :  that 's  —  what 's  so  hard.     I  have 

to  tell  you  something,  and  then  —  (Slowly]     I  must  know 

from  your  own  eyes,  from  yourself,  that  you  wish  to  do 

this,  Andrew :   that  you  think  it  is  right. 
ANDREW  (gently).     I  guessed  that. 
ELLEN.     This  is  what  I  must  tell  you.  —  It 's  not  just  the 

sickness,  it 's  not  only  the  baby,  not  the  money  gone  — 

and  all  that ;   it 's  —  it 's  - 
ANDREW  (murmurs) .     My  God ! 
ELLEN.     It 's  what  all  that  brings  —  the  helplessness  :  I  've 

been  insulted.     Andy  — 

(Her  voice  breaks) 

—  I  want  a  protector. 
ANDREW  (taking  her  in  his  arms,  where  she  sobs).     There, 

dear ! 

ELLEN  (with  a  low  moan) .     You  know. 
ANDREW.     I  know.  —  Come,  now  :   we  '11  go. 
ELLEN  (her  face  lighting  up).     Oh!  —  and  you  dare?     It's 

right  ? 
ANDREW  (moving  from   her,,  with    a  hoarse   laugh).     Dare? 

Dare  I  be  damned  by  God  and  all  His  angels  ?     Ha !  — 

Come,  we  're  slow. 
JOEL.  Time  enough. 
ELLEN  (sinking  upon  Joel's  knapsack  as  a  seat,  leans  her  head 

on  her  hands,  and  looks  strangely  at  Andrew).     I  'd  better 

have  written,  I  'm  afraid. 
ANDREW  (controlling  his  emotion).     Now  don't  take  it  that 

way.     I  've  considered  it  all. 
ELLEN  (with  deep  quiet).     Blasphemously? 
ANDREW.     Reasonably,  my  brave  wife.     When  I  enlisted,  I 

did  so  in  a  dream.     I  dreamed  I  was  called  to  love  and 

serve  our  country.     But  that  dream  is  shattered.     This 

sordid  war,  this  political  murder,  has  not  one  single  prin- 


SAM  AVERAGE  11 


ciple  of  humanity  to  excuse  its  bloody  sacrilege.     It  does 
n't  deserve  my  loyalty  —  our  loyalty. 

ELLEN.  Are  you  saying  this  —  for  my  sake  ?  What  of 
"God  and  His  angels"? 

ANDREW  (not  looking  at  her) .  If  we  had  a  just  cause  —  a 
cause  of  liberty  like  that  in  Seventy-six ;  if  to  serve  one's 
country  meant  to  serve  God  and  His  angels  —  then,  yes : 
a  man  might  put  away  wife  and  child.  He  might  say: 
"I  will  not  be  a  husband,  a  father;  I  will  be  a  patriot." 
But  now  —  like  this  —  tangled  in  a  web  of  spiders  —  caught 
in  a  grab-net  of  politicians  —  and  you,  you  and  our  baby- 
boy,  like  this  —  hell  let  in  on  our  home  —  no,  Country 
be  cursed ! 

ELLEN  (slowly) .     So,  then,  when  little  Andy  grows  up  — 

ANDREW  (groaning).     I  say  that  the  only  thing  — 

ELLEN.     I  am  to  tell  him  - 

ANDREW  (defiantly).     Tell  him  his  father  deserted  his  coun 
try,  and  thanked  God  for  the  chance. 
(Looking  about  him  passionately) 
Here! 

(He  tears  a  part  of  the  flag  from  its  standard,  and  reaches  it 
toward  her) 

You're  cold ;   put  this  round  you. 

[As  he  is  putting  the  strip  of  colored  silk  about  her  shoulders, 
there  rises,  faint  yet  close  by,  a  sound  of  fifes  and  flutes,  play 
ing  the  merry  march-strains  of  "  Yankee  Doodle." 
At  the  same  time,  there  enters  along  the  embankment,  dimly, 
enveloped  in  a  great  cloak,  a  tall  FIGURE,  which  pauses  beside 
the  standard  of  the  torn  flag,  silhouetted  against  the  first  pale 
streaks  of  the  dawn. 

ELLEN  (gazing  at  Andrew).     What's  the  matter? 

ANDREW  (listening).     Who  are  they?     Where  is  it? 

JOEL  (starts,  alertly).     He  hears  something. 

ANDREW.     Why  should  they  play  before  daybreak  ? 

ELLEN.     Andy  - 

JOEL  (whispers).     Ssh  !   Look  out :   we  're  spied  on. 

[He  points  to  the  embankment.     Andrew  and  Ellen  draw  back, 


SAM  AVERAGE 


THE  FIGURE  (straightening  the  flag-standard,  and  leaning  on  it). 

Desartin'  ? 
ANDREW    (puts    Ellen    behind  him).     Who's    there?     The 

watchword ! 

THE  FIGURE.     God  save  the  smart  folks  ! 
JOEL  (to  Andrew).     He  's  on  to  us.     Pickle  him  quiet,  or  it 's 

court-martial ! 

(Showing  a  long  knife) 

Shall  I  give  him  this? 
ANDRE  w  (taking  it  from  him) .     No;  /will. 
ELLEN  (seizing  his  arm) .     Andrew ! 

ANDREW.       Let  gO. 

(The  Figure,  descending  into  the  entrenchment,  approaches 
with  face  muffled.     Joel  draws  Ellen  away.     Andrew  moves 
toward  the  Figure  slowly.     They  meet  and  pause) 
You  're  a  spy  ! 

[With  a  quick  flash,  Andrew  raises  the  knife  to  strike,  but 
pauses,  staring.  The  Figure,  throwing  up  one  arm  toward 
the  blow,  reveals  —  through  the  parted  cloak  —  a  glint  of  stars 
in  the  firelight.1 

THE  FIGURE.  Steady  boys :  I  'm  one  of  ye.  The  sergeant 
told  me  to  drop  round. 

JOEL.     Oh,  the  sergeant !     That 's  all  right,  then. 

ANDREW  (dropping  the  knife) .     Who  are  you  ? 

THE  FIGURE  .  Who  be  I  ?  My  name,  ye  mean  ?  —  My  name  's 
Average :  Sam  Average :  Univarsal  Sam,  some  o'  my 
prophetic  friends  calls  me. 

ANDREW.     What  are  you  doing  here  —  now  ? 

THE  FIGURE.     Oh,  tendin'  to  business. 

JOEL.     Tendin'  to  other  folks'  business,  eh  ? 

THE  FIGURE  (with  a  touch  of  weariness) .  Ye-es ;  reckon  that 
is  my  business.  Some  other  folks  is  me. 

JOEL  (grimacing  to  Ellen) .     Cracked  ! 

lThe  head  and  face  of  the  Figure  are  partly  hidden  by  a  beak-shaped 
cowl.  Momentarily,  however,  when  his  head  is  turned  toward  the  fire, 
enough  of  the  face  is  discernible  to  reveal  his  narrow  iron-gray  beard, 
shaven  upper  lip,  aquiline  nose,  and  eyes  that  twinkle  in  the  dimness. 


SAM  AVERAGE  13 


THE  FIGURE  (to  Andrew).  You're  a  mite  backward  in  wages, 
ain't  ye  ? 

ANDREW.     Nine  months.     What  of  that  ? 

THE  FIGURE.  That 's  what  I  dropped  round  for.  Seems  like 
when  a  man  's  endoored  and  fit,  like  you  have,  for  his  coun 
try,  and  calculates  he  '11  quit,  he  ought  to  be  takin'  a  little 
suthin'  horn'  for  Thanksgivin'.  So  I  fetched  round  your 
pay. 

ANDREW.     My  pay  !     You  ? 

THE  FIGURE.     Yes ;   I'm  the  paymaster. 

ELLEN  (coming  forward,  eagerly).  Andy!  The  money,  is 
it? 

THE  FIGURE  (bows  with  a  grave,  old-fashioned  stateliness) . 
Your  sarvent,  Ma'am ! 

ANDREW  (speaking  low).     Keep  back,  Nell. 
(To  the  Figure) 
You  —  you  were  saying  — 

THE  FIGURE.     I  were  about  to  say  how  gold  bein'  scarce  down 
to  the  Treasury,   I  fetched  ye  some  s'curities  instead: 
some  national  I.O.U's,  as  ye  might  say. 
(He  takes  out  an  old  powder  horn,  and  rattles  it  quietly) 
That  's  them. 

(Pouring  from  the  horn  into  his  palm  some  glistening,  golden 
grains) 
Here  they  be. 

ELLEN  (peering,  with  Joel).     Gold,  Andy  ! 

JOEL  (with  a  snigger).  Gold  —  nothin' !  That  's  corn — 
just  Injun  corn  :  ha  ! 

THE  FIGURE  (bowing  gravely).  It 's  the  quality,  Ma'am,  what 
counts,  as  ye  might  say. 

JOEL  (behind  his  hand) .     His  top-loft  leaks ! 

THE  FIGURE.  These  here  karnels,  now,  were  give'  me  down 
Plymouth  way,  in  Massachusetts,  the  fust  Thanksgivin' 
seems  like  I  can  remember.  'T  wa'n't  long  after  the 
famine  we  had  thar.  Me  bein'  some  hungry,  the  red 
folks  fetched  a  hull-lot  o'  this  round,  with  the  compK- 
ments  of  their  capting  —  what  were  his  name  now  ?  — 


14  SAM  AVERAGE 


Massasoit.      This  here   's  the  last  handful  on   't  left. 

Thought  ye  might  like  some,  bein'  Thanksgivin'. 
JOEL  (in  a  low  voice  to  Ellen).     His  screws  are  droppin'  out. 

Come  and  pack.     We  've  got  to  mark  time  and  skip. 
THE  FIGURE  (without  looking  at  Joel) .     Eight  or  ten  minutes 

still  to  spare,  boys.     The  sergeant  said  —  wait  till  ye 

hear  his  jew's-harp  playin'  of  that  new  war  tune :    The 

Star  Spangled  Banner.      Then  ye  '11   know  the  coast  's 

clear. 
JOEL.     Gad,  that  's  right.     I  remember  now. 

[He  draws  Ellen  away  to  the  knapsack,  which  they  begin  to 

pack.     Andrew  has  never  removed  his  eyes  from  the  tall  form 

in  the  cloak. 

Now,  as  the  Figure  pours  back  the  yellow  grains  from  his 

palm  into  the  powder  horn,  he  speaks,  hesitatingly. 
ANDREW.     I  think  —  I  'd  like  some. 
THE  FIGURE.     Some  o'  what  ? 
ANDREW.     Those  —  my  pay. 
THE  FIGURE  (cheerfully) .     So ;  would  ye  ? 

(Handing  him  the  horn) 

Reckon  that  's  enough  ? 
ANDREW  (not  taking  it).     That 's  what  I  want  to  make  sure 

of  —  first. 

THE  FIGURE.     Oh  !   So  ye  're  hesitatin' ! 
ANDREW.     Yes  ;  but  I  want  you  to  help  me  decide.     Pardon 

me,  Sir ;  you  're  a  stranger ;  yet  somehow  I  feel  I  may  ask 

your  help.     You  've  come  just  in  time. 
THE  FIGURE.     Queer  I  should  a-dropped  round  jest  now, 

wa'n't  it  ?     S'posin'  we  take  a  turn. 

[Together  they  walk  toward  the  embankment. 

By  the  knapsack,  Ellen  finds  the  little  frame. 
ELLEN  (to  herself) .     My  picture  ! 

[She  looks  toward  Andrew  affectionately. 

Joel,  lifting  the  knapsack,  beckons  to  her. 
JOEL.     There  's  more  stuff  over  here. 

[He  goes  off,  right;  Ellen  follows  him. 
ANDREW  (to  the  Figure).     I  should  like  the  judgment  of  your 


SAM  AVERAGE  15 


experience,  Sir.     I  can't  quite  see  your  face,  yet  you  ap 
pear  to  be  one  who  has  had  a  great  deal  of  experience. 

THE  FIGURE.     Why,  consid'able  some. 

ANDREW.  Did  you  —  happen  to  fight  in  the  late  war  for 
independence  ? 

THE  FIGURE.     Happen  to  ? 
(Laughing  quietly) 
N-no,  not  fight :  ye  see  —  I  was  paymaster. 

ANDREW.     But  you  went  through  the  war? 

THE  FIGURE.  Ye-es,  oh  yes ;  I  went  through  it.  I  took  out 
my  fust  reg'lar  papers  down  to  Philadelphie,  in  '76,  seems 
like  't  was  the  fourth  day  o'  July.  But  I  was  paymaster 
afore  that. 

ANDREW.  Tell  me :  I  've  heard  it  said  there  were  deserters 
even  in  those  days,  even  from  the  roll-call  of  Washington. 
Is  it  true  ? 

THE  FIGURE.  True,  boy  ?  —  Have  ye  ever  watched  a  prairie 
fire  rollin'  towards  ye,  billowin'  with  flame  and  smoke, 
and  seed  all  the  midget  cowerin'  prairie-dogs  scootin'  for 
their  holes?  Wall,  that  's  the  way  I  watched  Howe's 
army  sweepin'  crosst  the  Jarsey  marshes,  and  seed  the 
desartin*  little  patriots,  with  their  chins  over  their  shoulders 
skedaddlin'  home'ards. 

ANDREW.     What  —  the  Americans  ! 

THE  FIGURE.  All  but  a  handful  on  'em  —  them  as  weren't 
canines,  ye  might  say,  but  men.  They  set  a  back-fire 
goin'  at  Valley  Forge.  Most  on  'em  burnt  their  toes  and 
fingers  off,  lightin'  on  't  thar  in  the  white  frost,  but  they 
stuck  it  through  and  saved  —  wall,  the  prairie-dogs. 

ANDREW.  But  they  —  those  others  :  What  reason  did  they 
give  to  God  and  their  own  souls  for  deserting? 

THE  FIGURE.       To  who  ? 

ANDREW.  To  their  consciences :  What  was  their  reason  ? 
It  must  have  been  a  noble  one  in  Seventy-six.  Their 
reason  then :  don't  you  see,  I  must  have  it.  I  must  know 
what  reason  real  heroes  gave  for  their  acts.  You  were 
there.  You  can  tell  me. 


16  SAM  AVERAGE 


THE  FIGURE.  Real  heroes,  eh?  Look  around  ye,  then: 
To-day  's  the  heroic  age,  and  the  true  brand  o'  hero  is 
aPays  in  the  market.  Look  around  ye ! 

ANDREW.  What,  here  —  in  this  war  of  jobsters,  this  petty 
campaign  of  monstrous  boodle  ? 

THE  FIGURE.     Thar  we  be  ! 

ANDREW.  Why,  here  are  only  a  lot  of  cowardly  half-men, 
like  me  —  lovers  of  their  own  folks  —  their  wives  and 
babies  at  home.  They  '11  make  sacrifices  for  them.  But 
real  men  like  our  fathers  in  Seventy-six :  they  looked  in 
the  beautiful  face  of  Liberty,  and  sacrificed  to  her! 

THE  FIGURE.  Our  fathers,  my  boy,  was  jest  as  fond  o' 
poetry  as  you  be.  They  talked  about  the  beautiful  face 
o*  Liberty  same  's  you ;  but  when  the  hom'-made  eyes  and 
cheeks  of  their  sweethearts  and  young  uns  took  to  cryin  ', 
they  desarted  their  beautiful  goddess  and  skun  out  horn*. 

ANDREW.     But  there  were  some  — 

THE  FIGURE.  Thar  was  some  as  didn't  —  yes ;  and  thar  *s 
some  as  don't  to-day.  Those  be  the  folks  on  my  pay-roll. 
Why,  look  a-here :  I  calc'late  I  wouldn't  fetch  much  on 
the  beauty  counter.  My  talk  ain't  rhyme  stuff,  nor  the 
Muse  o'  Grammar  wa'n't  my  schoolma'am.  Th'  ain't 
painter  nor  clay-sculptor  would  pictur'  me  jest  like  I 
stand.  For  the  axe  has  hewed  me,  and  the  plough  has 
furrered ;  and  the  arnin'  of  gold  by  my  own  elbow-grease 
has  give'  me  the  shrewd  eye  at  a  bargain.  I  manure  my 
crops  this  side  o' Jordan,  and  as  for  t'other  shore,  I'd  ruther 
swap  jokes  with  the  Lord  than  listen  to  his  sarmons.  And 
yet  for  the  likes  o'  me,  jest  for  to  arn  my  wages  —  ha,  the 
many,  many  boys  and  gals  that 's  gone  to  their  grave-beds, 
and  when  I  a-closed  their  eyes,  the  love-light  was  shinin* 
thar. 

ANDREW  (who  has  listened,  with  awe).  What  are  you  ?  What 
are  you? 

THE  FIGURE.     Me?     I'm  the  pay-master. 

ANDREW.     I  want  to  serve  you  —  like  those  others. 
THE  FIGURE.     Slow,  slow,  boy  !     Nobody  sarves  me. 


SAM  AVERAGE  17 


ANDREW.     But  they  died  for  you  —  the  others. 

THE  FIGURE.  No,  't  wa'n't  for  me :  't  was  for  him  as  pays 
the  wages  :  the  one  as  works  through  me  —  the  one  higher 
up.  I'm  only  the  pay-master :  kind  of  a  needful  make 
shift  —  his  obedient  sarvent. 

ANDREW  (with  increasing  curiosity,  seeks  to  peer  in  the  Figure's 
face) .  But  the  one  up  higher  —  who  is  he  ? 

THE  FIGURE  (turning  his  head  away).  Would  ye  sarve  him, 
think,  if  ye  heerd  his  voice  ? 

ANDREW  (ardently,  drawing  closer) .     And  saw  his  face ! 
[Drawing  his  cowl  lower  and   taking  Andrew's   arm,   the 
Figure  leads  him  up  on  the  embankment,  where  they  stand 
together. 

THE  FIGURE.     Hark  a-yonder  ! 

ANDREW  (listening).     Is  it  thunder? 

THE  FIGURE.     Have  ye  forgot  ? 

ANDREW.     The  voice  !   I  remember  now :  —  Niagara ! 

[With  awe,  Andrew  looks  toward  the  Figure,  who  stands 
shrouded  and  still,  facing  the  dawn.  From  far  off  comes  a 
sound  as  of  falling  waters,  and  with  that  —  a  deep,  murmur 
ous  voice,  which  seems  to  issue  from  the  Figure's  cowl. 

THE  VOICE.  I  am  the  Voice  that  was  heard  of  your  fathers, 
and  your  fathers'  fathers.  Mightier  —  mightier,  I  shall 
be  heard  of  your  sons.  I  am  the  Million  in  whom  the  one 
is  lost,  and  I  am  the  One  in  whom  the  millions  are  saved. 
Their  ears  shall  be  shut  to  my  thunders,  their  eyes  to  my 
blinding  stars.  In  shallow  streams  they  shall  tap  my  life- 
blood  for  gold.  With  dregs  of  coal  and  of  copper  they 
shall  pollute  me.  In  the  mystery  of  my  mountains  they 
shall  assail  me ;  in  the  majesty  of  my  forests,  strike  me 
down;  with  engine  and  derrick  and  mill-stone,  bind  me 
their  slave.  Some  for  a  lust,  some  for  a  love,  shall  desert 
me.  One  and  one,  for  his  own,  shall  fall  away.  Yet  one 
and  one  and  one  shall  return  to  me  for  life ;  the  deserter 
and  the  destroyer  shall  re-create  me.  Primeval,  their 
life-blood  is  mine.  My  pouring  waters  are  passion,  my 
lightnings  are  laughter  of  man.  I  am  the  One  in  whom 


18  SAM  AVERAGE 


the  millions  are  saved,  and  I  am  the  Million  in  whom  the 

one  is  lost. 
ANDREW  (yearningly,  to  the  Figure) .     Your  face  ! 

(The  Figure  turns  majestically  away.     Andrew  clings  to 

him) 

Your  face ! 

[In  the  shadow  of  the  flag,  the  Figure  unmufflesfor  an  instant. 

Peering,  dazzled,  Andrew  staggers  back,  with  a  low  cry,  and, 

covering  his  eyes,  falls  upon  the  embankment. 

From  away,  left,  the  thrumming  of  a  jew's-harp  is  heard, 

playing  "  The  Star  Spangled  Banner." 

From  the  right,  enter  Joel  and  Ellen. 

Descending  from  the  embankment,  the  Figure  stands  apart. 
JOEL.     Well,  Colonel  Average,  time  's  up. 
ELLEN  (seeing  Andrew's  prostrate  form,  hastens  to  him).    Andy  ! 

What 's  happened  ? 
ANDREW  (rising  slowly).     Come  here.     I  '11  whisper  it. 

[He  leads  her  beside  the  embankment,  beyond  which  the  dawn 

is  beginning  to  redden. 

JOEL.     Yonder  's  the  sergeant's  jew's-harp.     That 's  our  sig 
nal,  Nell.     So  long,  Colonel. 
THE  FIGURE  (nodding).     So  long,  sonny. 
ANDREW  (holding  Ellen's  hands,  passionately).     You  under 
stand  ?     You  do  ? 
ELLEN  (looking  in  his  eyes) .     I  understand,  dear. 

[They  kiss  each  other. 
JOEL  (calls  low).     Come,  you  married  turtles.     The  road  's 

clear.     Follow  me  now.     Sneak. 

[Carrying  his  knapsack,  Joel  climbs  over  the  embankment, 

and  disappears. 

The  thrumming  of  the  jew's-harp  continues. 

Ellen,  taking  the  strip  of  silk  flag  from  her  shoulders,  ties  it 

to  the  standard. 

ANDREW  (faintly).     God  bless  you! 
ELLEN  (as  they  part  hands) .     Good-bye  ! 

[The  Figure  has  remounted  the  embankment,  where  —  in  the 

distincter  glow  of  the  red  dawn  —  the  grey  folds  of  his  cloak, 


SAM  AVERAGE  19 


hanging  from  his  shoulders,  resemble  the  half -closed  wings  of 
an  eagle,  the  beaked  cowl  falling,  as  a  kind  of  visor,  before  his 
face,  concealing  it. 

THE  FIGURE.     Come,  little  gal. 

(Ellen  goes  to  him,  and  hides  her  face  in  the  great  cloak. 
As  she  does  so,  he  draws  from  it  a  paper,  writes  on  it,  and 
hands  it  to  Andrew,  with  the  powder  horn) 
By  the  bye,  Andy,  here  's  that  s'curity.     Them  here  's  my 
initials  :  they  're  all  what  's  needful.     Jest  file  this  in  the 
right  pigeonhole,  and  you  '11  draw  your  pay.  —  Keep  your 
upper  lip,  boy.     I  '11  meet  ye  later,  mebbe,  at  Lundy's 
Lane. 

ANDREW  (wistfully).     You  '11  take  her  home? 

THE  FIGURE.  Yes  :  reckon  she  '11  housekeep  for  your  uncle, 
till  you  get  back;  won't  ye,  Nellie?  Come,  don't  cry, 
little  gal.  We  '11  soon  git  'quainted.  'T  aint  the  fust  time 
sweethearts  has  called  me  Uncle. 

[Flinging  back  his  great  cloak,  he  throws  one  wing  of  it,  with 
his  arm,  about  her  shoulders,  thus  with  half  its  reverse  side 
draping  her  with  shining  stripes  and  stars.  By  the  same 
action,  his  own  figure  is  made  partly  visible  —  the  legs  clad  in 
the  tight,  instep-strapped  trousers  [blue  and  white]  of  the 
Napoleonic  era.  Holding  the  girl  gently  to  him  —  while  her 
face  turns  back  toward  Andrew  —  he  leads  her,  silhouetted 
against  the  sunrise,  along  the  embankment,  and  disappears. 
Meantime  the  thrumming  twang  of  the  jew's-harp  grows 
sweeter,  mellower,  modulated  with  harmonies  that,  filling  now 
the  air  with  elusive  strains  of  the  American  war-hymn,  mingle 
with  the  faint  dawn-twitterings  of  birds. 

Andrew  stares  silently  after  the  departed  forms ;  then,  slowly 
coming  down  into  the  entrenchment,  lifts  from  the  ground  his 
gun  and  ramrod,  leans  on  the  gun,  and  —  reading  the  paper 
in  his  hand  by  the  growing  light  —  mutters  it  aloud : 

U.  S.  A. 

Smiling  sternly,  he  crumples  the  paper  in  his  fist,  makes  a 
wad  of  it,  and  rams  it  into  his  gun-barrel. 
CURTAIN 


SIX  WHO  PASS  WHILE  THE 
LENTILS  BOIL 

STUART  WALKER 

MR.  STUART  WALKER  was  born  in  Augusta,  Kentucky. 
In  1890  he  moved  to  Cincinnati  where  he  entered  the 
University  and  received  his  degree.  Some  time  later  he 
came  to  New  York  and  completed  a  course  at  the  American 
Academy  of  Dramatic  Arts.  He  then  secured  a  position 
with  Belasco,  and  quickly  rose  to  be  General  Director. 
In  1914,  he  organized  and  established  his  own  Portmanteau 
Company,  which  has  been  very  significant  in  Little  Theatre 
history.  The  Portmanteau  stage  is  complete  theatrically 
and  can  be  packed  up  and  carried,  in  its  entire  form, 
from  one  city  to  another.  For  this  reason  it  is  probably 
better  known  nationally  than  any  other  Little  Theatre. 

Mr.  Walker  has  produced  in  this  theatre:  "The  Moon 
Lady",  which  he  wrote  in  1908;  "Six  Who  Pass  While  the 
Lentils  Boil",  written  in  1915  (and  which  it  might  be  inter, 
esting  to  note  was  completed  in  a  single  day) ;  "  The  Trimp- 
let",  1915;  "The  Seven  Gifts  of  Pantomime",  1915; 
"Nevertheless",  1915  ;  "The  Lady  of  the  Weeping  Willow 
Tree",  1916;  "The  Birthday  of  the  Infanta",  1916;  "The 
Very  Naked  Boy",  1916;  and  "The  Medicine  Show",  1916. 

In  addition  to  the  plays  which  he  has  given  with  the 
Portmanteau  Company,  Mr.  Walker  has  produced  a  drama 
tization  of  Booth  Tarkington's  "Seventeen",  and  "Jonathan 
Makes  a  Wish."  His  Portmanteau  plays  have  been  published 
under  the  title  "Portmanteau  Plays." 


SIX  WHO  PASS  WHILE  THE  LENTILS 

BOIL 


BY  STUART  WALKER 


"Six  Who  Pass  While  the  Lentils  Boil"  was  originally  pro 
duced  at  an  invitation  performance  at  Christodora  House, 
New  York  City,  July  14,  1915.  The  first  public  perform 
ance  was  at  Jordan  Hall,  Boston,  February  14,  1916.  Both 
performances  were  given  under  the  auspices  of  the  Port 
manteau  Theatre. 

Original  Cast 

1915  1916 

THE  PROLOGUE    .     .   Henry  Kiefer  Lew  Medbury 

THE  DEVICE-BEARER  Edmond  Crenshaw    Edmond     Cren- 


BOY    .... 

QUEEN  .  .  . 
MIME  .  .  . 
MILKMAID  .  . 
BLINDMAN  .  . 
BALLAD  SINGER 
HEADSMAN  . 


James  W.  Morrison 
Judith  Lowry 
William  Farrell 
Nancy  Winston 
Joseph  Graham 
Tom  Powers 
McKay  Morris 


Gregory  Kelly 
Judith  Lowry 
WilmotHeitland 
Nancy  Winston 
Edgar  Stehli 
Stuart  Walker 
McKay  Morris 


COPYRIGHT,  1917,  BY  STEWART  AND  KIDD,  CINCINNATI. 

Reprinted  from  "Portmanteau  Plays"  by  permission  of  and  special  arrangement 
with  Stuart  Walker  and  Stewart  and  Kidd. 

Application  for  the  right  of  performing  "Six  Who  Pass  While  the  Lentils  Boil" 
must  be  made  to  Mr.  Stuart  Walker,  304  Carnegie  Hall,  New  York  City.  Public 
performance  forbidden. 


SIX   WHO   PASS   WHILE   THE   LENTILS   BOIL 

THE  SCENE  is  a  kitchen. 

THE  PERIOD  is  when  you  will. 

Before  the  opening  of  the  curtains  the  Prologue  enters  upon 

the  forestage  and  summons  the  Device-Bearer  who  carries  a 

large  copper  pot. 

PROLOGUE.  This  is  a  copper  pot.  (The  Device-Bearer  shows 
it  to  the  audience  carefully)  It  is  filled  with  boiling  water. 
(The  Device-Bearer  makes  the  sound  of  bubbling  water)  It  is 
on  the  fire.  See  the  flames.  (The  Device-Bearer  sets  the 
pot  in  the  center  of  the  forestage  and  blows  under  it  with  a 
pair  of  bellows)  And  see  the  water  boiling  over.  (The 
Device-Bearer  again  makes  the  sound  of  bubbling  water  and 
then  withdraws  to  where  he  can  see  the  play  from  the  side  of 
the  forestage)  We  are  looking  into  the  kitchen  of  the  Boy 
whose  mother  left  him  alone.  I  do  not  know  where  she 
has  gone  but  I  do  know  that  he  is  gathering  lentils  now. 

YOU.     What  are  lentils  ? 

PROLOGUE.  A  lentil?  Why  a  lentil,  don't  you  see,  is  not 
a  bean  nor  yet  a  pea ;  but  it  is  kin  to  both  .  .  .  You  must 
imagine  that  the  boy  has  built  the  fire  and  set  the  water 
boiling.  He  is  very  industrious  but  you  need  not  feel  sorry 
for  him.  His  mother  is  very  good  to  him  and  he  is  safe. 
Are  you  ready  now  ?  .  .  .  Very  well.  Be  quiet. 
[The  Prologue  claps  his  hands  twice. 

The  curtains  open  and  a  kitchen  is  disclosed.  There  are  a 
bench,  a  stool  and  a  cupboard.  A  great  door  at  the  back  opens 
into  a  corridor.  There  are  also  two  windows  —  one  higher 
than  the  other — looking  upon  the  corridor.  A  t  the  right  a  door 
opens  into  the  bedroom  of  the  Boy's  mother.  A  great  pewter 
spoon  lies  upon  the  shelf  in  the  cupboard. 


26    SIX  WHO  PASS  WHILE  THE  LENTILS  BOIL 

A  large  Butterfly  comes  in  through  the  doorway,  flits  about  and 

looks  off  stage. 

The  song  of  the  Boy  is  heard  from  the  garden. 

The  Butterfly  goes  to  the  door,  poises  a  moment,  then  alights 

on  the  cupboard. 

The  Boy  enters  with  a  great  bowl  filled  with  lentils. 

The  Butterfly  flies  to  the  bowl  and  satisfied  returns  to  the  cup 
board. 

The  Boy  smiles  at  the  Butterfly  but  he  does  not  touch  him. 

Then  he  empties  the  lentils  into  the  pot  and  water  splashes 

on  his  careless  hand. 

A  moan  is  heard  in  the  distance.     The  Boy  and  the  Butterfly 

go  to  the  door. 

The  Queen's  voice  is  heard  calling: 

Butterfly,  Butterfly,  where  shall  I  hide? 

[Enter  the  Queen. 

QUEEN.     Boy,  Boy  —  oh,  I  am  distraught ! 
you.     What  is  distraught  ? 
PROLOGUE.     Distraught  means  distracted,  perplexed,  beset 

with  doubt,  worried  by  some  fear. 
BOY  (pityingly).     Why  are  you  distraught? 
QUEEN.     Oh  —  Oh  —  Oh  —  They  are  going  to  behead  me  ! 
BOY.     When  ? 
QUEEN.     Before  mid-day. 
BOY.     Why  are  they  going  to  behead  you?     Is  it  a  story? 

Tell  it  to  me. 

QUEEN.     I  was  guilty  of  a  breach  of  etiquette. 
BOY.     What  is  that? 
QUEEN.     I  did  something  that  was  considered  bad  manners 

and  the  law  says  the  punishment  is  decapitation. 
YOU.     What  is  decapitation  ? 
PROLOGUE.     Decapitation  is  beheading;    cutting  off  one's 

head. 

BOY.     Why,  only  kings  and  queens  can  be  decapitated. 
QUEEN.     Oh,  I  know  —  I  know  — 
BOY  (disappointed) .     Are  you  a  queen  ? 
QUEEN.     Yes. 


SIX  WHO  PASS  WHILE  THE   LENTILS  BOIL    27 

BOY.     I  thought  all  queens  were  big.     My  mother  says  they 

are  always  regal.     And  my  mother  knows. 
QUEEN.     Oh,  I  am  the  queen.     /  am  the  queen ;   but  I  am 

so  unhappy. 
BOY.     My  mother  told  me  kings  and  queens  knew  no  fear  ? 

Why,  you're  afraid. 

QUEEN.     Oh,  Boy,  Boy,  I  am  your  queen  and  I  am  afraid 
and  unhappy.     And  queens  are  just  like  other  people 
when  they  are  afraid  and  unhappy. 
BOY  (disappointed).     Aren't  they  always  regal? 
QUEEN.     No  —  no.     Oh,  little  boy,  hide  me,  hide  me  from 

the  Dreadful  Headsman ! 
BOY.     I  haven't  any  place  to  hide  you.     You  couldn't  get 

under  the  bench  and  you  couldn't  get  into  the  cupboard. 
QUEEN.     Little  boy,  can't  you  see  that  I  shall  lose  my  head 

if  I  am  found  ? 
BOY.     You  might  have  hidden  in  the  pot  if  I  hadn't  put  it 

on  the  fire. 

QUEEN.     Oh  —  Oh  —  Oh  - 
BOY.     I'm  sorry. 
QUEEN.     I  am  distraught. 

BOY.     Well,  I'll  hide  you,  because  you  are  distraught ;   but 
—  I  am  not  sure  you  are  a  queen.  .  .  .  Where's   your 
crown  ?     You  can't  be  a  queen  without  a  crown  ! 
[She  reaches  up  to  her  head. 

QUEEN.  Oh,  I  was  running  so  fast  that  it  must  have  slipped 
from  my  head.  (Sees  the  Butterfly)  Butterfly,  tell  him 
I  am  your  Queen. 

[The  Butterfly  flies  to  her  head  and  lights  on  her  disheveled 
locks  like  a  diadem. 

BOY.  Oh,  I  have  talked  to  the  Queen  !  .  .  .  You  can  hide 
in  my  mother's  bedroom  in  there;  but  first  please  tell 
me  a  story. 

QUEEN.  They  will  find  me  here.  I'll  tell  you  a  story  after 
ward. 

BOY.     I  want  you  to  tell  me  now. 
QUEEN.     Well,  you  watch  at  the  door  and  warn  me  when 


28    SIX   WHO   PASS   WHILE   THE   LENTILS  BOIL 

you  see  some  one  coming.       (The  Butterfly  brushes  her  ear) 
But  stay,  the  Butterfly  says  he'll  watch. 
[The  Butterfly  goes  to  the  door. 

BOY.     Will  he  know  ? 

QUEEN.  Oh,  yes.  He  is  a  wonderful  butterfly  —  wise  be 
yond  his  years. 

BOY.     Sit  down  and  tell  me  your  story. 

[He  places  a  black  pillow  for  the  Queen  on  the  step  and  an 
orange  pillow  for  himself. 

OUEEN.  Last  night  we  celebrated  the  second  year  of  peace 
with  the  neighboring  kingdom.  We  were  dancing  the 
minuet  just  after  the  banquet,  when  I  stepped  on  the 
ring-toe  of  my  husband  the  King's  great  aunt. 

BOY.     Didn't  you  say  excuse  me  ? 

QUEEN.  It  was  useless.  The  law  says  that  if  a  queen  steps 
on  the  ring-toe  of  the  King's  great  aunt  or  any  member  of 
her  family  the  Queen  must  be  beheaded  while  the  King's 
four  clocks  are  striking  twelve  at  mid-day. 

BOY.     Oh,  that  means  to-day  ? 

QUEEN.     Yes. 

BOY.  Why,  it's  almost  mid-day  now.  See,  I've  just  set  the 
lentils  boiling. 

QUEEN.  If  you  can  hide  me  until  after  the  King's  four  clocks 
strike  twelve  I  shall  be  safe. 

BOY.     Why  are  there  four  clocks  ? 

QUEEN.  Because  the  law  allows  only  one  clock  for  each 
tower  in  the  castle. 

BOY.  Then  I  hear  all  the  King's  clocks  every  day  !  There's 
a  big  clock,  and  two  clocks  not  so  big,  and  a  tiny  little 
clock. 

QUEEN.     Yes,  those  are  the  four. 

BOY.  Why  will  you  be  safe  after  the  four  clocks  strike 
twelve  ? 

QUEEN.     Because  that  is  the  law. 

BOY.     Aren't  laws  funny  ? 

QUEEN.     Funny  ?     This  one  is  very  sad,  I  think. 

BOY.     Mightn't  it  be  twelve  any  mid-day  ? 


SIX  WHO  PASS  WHILE  THE   LENTILS  BOIL    29 

QUEEN  No;  the  Prime  Minister  of  my  grandfather  who 
passed  the  law  decided  that  it  meant  only  the  following 
mid-day. 

BOY  (rising  and  rushing  to  the  door).     They'll  find  you  here. 

QUEEN  (rising  calmly).  Oh,  no,  this  is  the  short  cut  to  the 
beheading  block.  Through  that  corridor. 

BOY.     Why  didn't  you  run  the  other  way  ? 

QUEEN.  Because  they  always  search  for  escaped  people  in 
that  direction.  So  I  ran  through  your  garden  and  into 
this  room.  They'll  never  search  for  me  so  close  to  the 
castle. 

BOY.     How  did  you  escape  ? 

QUEEN.       I  - 

[The  Butterfly  seems  agitated. 

BOY.       YOU  — 

QUEEN.     Some  one  is  coming.     Hide  me  ! 

BOY.     In  here  —  in  my  mother's  room.     'Sh  !     'Sh  ! 

[The  Queen  goes  out. 

Enter  the  Mime. 

He  pokes  his  head  in  the  lower  window  and  peeps  around  the 

door. 

The  boy  turns. 

BOY  (weakly) .     Are  you  the  Dreadful  Headsman  ? 
MIME.     What  ? 

BOY.     Are  you  the  Dreadful  Headsman  ? 
MIME.     Do  I  look  like  a  headsman  ? 
BOY.     I  don't  know ;    I've  never  seen  one. 
MIME.     Well,  suppose  I  am. 
BOY.     Are  you  ? 
MIME.     Maybe  I  am. 
BOY.     Oh ! 
MIME.     Booh ! 

BOY.     I'm  —  I'm  —  not  afraid. 
MIME.     Bah ! 

BOY.     And  my  mother  isn't  here. 
MIME.     Br  —  r  —  r  —  r  ! 

[The  Boy  reaches  for  his  knife. 


30    SIX  WHO   PASS  WHILE  THE  LENTILS  BOIL 

MIME.     Bing ! 

BOY.     I  wasn't  going  to  hurt  you  ! 

MIME.     'Sh  .  .  .  'Sh !  .  .  .  'Sh !  .  .  . 

BOY.     I'll  give  you  my  knife  if  you'll  go  'way. 

MIME.     Ah,  —  ha  ! 

BOY.     It's  nearly  mid-day  and  you'd  better  go. 

MIME.     Well,  give  me  the  knife. 

BOY.     Promise  me  to  go. 

MIME  (laughs,  turning  away).  Aren't  you  going  to  the  be 
heading  ? 

BOY.     No.     I  have  to  boil  the  lentils  for  our  mid-day  meal. 

MIME.     May  I  come  back  and  eat  some  ? 

BOY.     You'll  have  to  ask  my  mother. 

MIME.     Where  is  she  ? 

BOY.  She's  over  that  way.  She  went  to  the  market  to  buy 
a  bobbin. 

YOU.     What  is  a  bobbin  ? 

PROLOGUE.  A  bobbin  is  a  spool  upon  which  thread  is  wound, 
and  it  is  sharp  at  one  end  so  that  it  can  be  easily  passed 
backward  and  forward,  to  and  fro,  through  the  other 
threads  in  making  lace. 

MIME  (starting  off).     Well,  I'll  be  back  to  eat  some  lentils. 

BOY  (too  eagerly).     You'd  better  hurry. 

MIME.     You  seem  to  want  to  get  rid  of  me. 

BOY  (allaying  suspicion).  Well,  I  think  you'd  better  go  or 
you'll  be  late  —  and  it's  very  wrong  to  be  late. 

MIME  (going  toward  the  door).  I  think  I'll  (changing  his 
mind)  sit  down. 

BOY  (disappointed) .     Oh  ! 

MIME.     What  would  you  say  if  I  wasn't  the  Headsman  ? 

BOY.     But  you  said  you  were. 

MIME.     I  said  maybe  I  was. 

BOY.     Aren't  you  ? 

MIME.     Maybe  I'm  not. 

BOY.     Honest  ? 

MIME.     Um,  hum. 

BOY  (relieved) .     Oh !  .  .  . 


SIX  WHO  PASS  WHILE  THE   LENTILS  BOIL    31 

MIME.     You  were  afraid. 

BOY.     No  ...  I  wasn't. 

MIME.     Would  you  fight  ? 

BOY.     You  bet  I  would. 

MIME.     It  wouldn't  take  me  a  minute  to  lick  you. 

BOY.  Maybe  it  wouldn't,  but  I  wouldn't  give  up  right 
away.  That  would  be  cowardly.  .  .  .  Who  are  you? 

MIME.     I'm  a  mime  — 

BOY.     What's  a  mime  ? 

MIME.     A  mime's  a  mime. 

BOY.     Go  on  and  tell  me. 

MIME.     A  mime's  a  mountebank. 

BOY.     What's  a  mountebank  ? 

MIME.     A  mountebank's  a  strolling  player. 

BOY.     Are  you  going  to  perform  for  me  ? 

MIME.     Not  to-day  —  I'm  on  my  way  to  the  decapitation. 

BOY.     Do  you  want  to  see  the  decapitation  ? 

MIME.  Well,  yes.  But  most  of  all  I  want  to  pick  up  a  few 
coins. 

BOY.     How  ? 

MIME.     Why,  I'll  perform  after  the  Queen  has  lost  her  head. 

BOY.     Won't  you  be  too  sorry  ? 

MIME,  No.  You  see,  I'll  be  thinking  mostly  about  what 
I'm  going  to  do.  I  have  to  do  my  best  because  it  is  hard  to 
be  more  interesting  than  a  decapitation.  And  after  it's 
all  over  the  crowd  will  begin  to  talk  and  to  move  about : 
and  I'll  have  to  rush  up  to  the  front  of  them  and  cry  out 
at  the  top  of  my  lungs,  "Stop  —  Ho,  for  Jack  the  Juggler  ! 
Would  you  miss  him  ?  In  London  where  the  king  of  kings 
lives,  all  the  knights  and  ladies  of  the  Court  would  leave  a 
crowning  to  watch  Jack  the  Juggler  toss  three  golden  balls 
with  one  hand  or  balance  a  weathervane  upon  his  nose." 
Then  a  silence  will  come  upon  the  crowd  and  they  will  all 
turn  to  me.  Some  one  will  say,  "Where  is  this  Jack  the 
Juggler?"  And  I  shall  answer,  "Jack  the  Juggler,  the 
greatest  of  the  great,  the  pet  of  kings,  entertainer  to  the 
Pope  and  the  joy  of  Cathay  stands  before  you."  And 


32    SIX  WHO  PASS  WHILE   THE  LENTILS  BOIL 

I'll  throw  back  my  cloak  and  stand  revealed.  So  !  Some 
one  will  then  shout,  "Let  us  have  it,  Jack."  So  I'll  draw 
my  three  golden  balls  from  my  pouch  —  like  this  —  and 
then  begin. 

[  The  Boy  is  watching  breathlessly  and  the  Butterfly  is  inter 
ested  too.  Their  disappointment  is  keen  when  Jack  does 
nothing. 

BOY.     Aren't  you  going  to  show  me  ? 

MIME.     No,  I  must  be  off. 

BOY.     Aren't  you  ever  coming  back  ? 

MIME.     Maybe,  yes ;  perhaps,  no. 

BOY.  I'll  give  you  some  lentils  if  you'll  juggle  the  balls  for 
me. 

MIME  (sniffs  the  pot).     They  aren't  cooked  yet. 

BOY.     Let  me  hold  your  golden  balls. 

MIME  (takes  a  gold  ball  from  his  pouch  and  lets  the  Boy  hold  it). 
Here's  one. 

BOY.     And  do  they  pay  you  well  ? 

MIME  (taking  the  ball  from  the  Boy).  Ay,  that  they  do .  If  I 
am  as  interesting  as  the  beheading  I'll  get  perhaps  fifteen 
farthings  in  money  and  other  things  that  I  can  exchange 
for  food  and  raiment. 

BOY.     I'm  going  to  be  a  mime  and  buy  a  castle  and  a  sword. 

MIME.     Maybe    so    and    maybe    not.     Who    knows?  .  .  . 
Good-by. 
[He  goes  out. 

BOY  (to  the  Butterfly).     If  he  had  been  the  Dreadful  Heads 
man  I  would  have  slain  him.     So!  ...     "Ah,  wicked 
headsman,  you  shall  not  behead  the  Queen !  .  .  .     Cross 
not  that  threshold  or  I'll  run  you  through." 
[Throughout  this  the  Butterfly  shows  great  interest  and  enters 
into  the  spirit  of  it,  being  absorbed  at  times  and  frightened 
at  others. 
Enter  the  Milkmaid  at  door. 

MILKMAID.       Pst  !  .    .    .    Pst  ! 

BOY  (startled).     Oh! 

MILKMAID.     Are  you  going  to  the  decapitation  ? 


SIX   WHO   PASS   WHILE   THE   LENTILS   BOIL     33 

BOY.     No.     Are  you  ? 

MILKMAID.     That  I  am. 

BOY.     Will  your  mother  let  you  go  ? 

MILKMAID.     She  doesn't  know. 

BOY.     Did  you  run  away  ? 

MILKMAID.     No.     I  went  out  to  milk  the  cow. 

BOY.     And  did  you  do  it  ? 

MILKMAID.     Yes. 

BOY.     Why  didn't  you  wait  until  you  came  back  ? 

MILKMAID.  My  mother  was  looking  and  I  had  to  let  her  see 
me  doing  something. 

BOY.  How  did  you  get  away  when  you  took  the  milk  pails 
into  the  house  ? 

MILKMAID.  I  didn't  take  them  in.  As  soon  as  my  mother 
turned  her  back  I  hid  the  pails  and  I  ran  through  here  to 
take  a  short  cut. 

BOY.     Where  did  you  hide  the  milk  ? 

MILKMAID.     In  the  hollow  tree. 

BOY.     Won't  it  sour? 

MILKMAID.     Maybe. 

BOY.     Won't  your  mother  scold  you? 

MILKMAID.  Yes,  of  course,  but  I  couldn't  miss  the  behead 
ing. 

BOY.     Will  you  take  the  sour  milk  home  ? 

MILKMAID.  Yes,  and  after  my  mother  scolds  me  I'll  make 
it  into  nice  cheese  and  sell  it  to  the  King's  Cook  and  then 
mother  will  forgive  me. 

BOY  (sniffing  the  pot).  You'd  better  hurry.  It's  nearly  mid 
day.  Don't  you  smell  the  lentils  ? 

MILKMAID.     The  headsman  hasn't  started  yet 

BOY  (giggling).     He'd  better  hurry. 

MILKMAID.     They  can't  find  the  Queen. 

BOY  (so  innocently) .     Did  she  escape  ? 

MILKMAID.     Yes. 

BOY.     Are  they  hunting  for  her  ? 

MILKMAID.  Yes,  and  they've  offered  a  big  reward  to  the  per 
son  who  finds  her. 


34     SIX  WHO  PASS  WHILE  THE  LENTILS  BOIL 

BOY.     How  much  ? 

MILKMAID.     A  pail  of  gold  and  a  pair  of  finger  rings. 

BOY.  That's  a  good  deal  .  .  .  with  a  pail  of  gold  I  could 
buy  my  mother  a  velvet  dress  and  a  silken  kerchief  and  a 
bonnet  made  of  cloth  of  gold  —  and  I  could  buy  myself 
a  milk-white  palfrey. 

MILKMAID.     And  you'd  never  have  to  work  again. 

BOY.  But  she's  such  a  gentle  queen.  Where  are  they 
hunting  her  ? 

MILKMAID.     Everywhere. 

BOY.  Everywhere !  .  .  .  Maybe  she's  waiting  at  the  be 
heading  block. 

MILKMAID.  Silly  goose !  She  wouldn't  try  to  escape  this 
way.  She'd  go  in  the  opposite  direction. 

BOY.     Do  people  always  run  in  the  opposite  direction  ? 

MILKMAID.     Of  course,  everybody  knows  that. 

BOY.     I  wish  I  could  go. 

MILKMAID.     Come  on. 

BOY.     Um  —  uh.     The  lentils  might  burn. 

MILKMAID.     Pour  some  cold  water  on  them. 

BOY.     Um  —  uh.     I  promised  I  wouldn't  leave  the  house. 

MILKMAID.     Oh,  it  will  be  wonderful ! 

BOY.     The  Mime  will  be  there. 

MILKMAID.  The  one  with  the  long  cloak  and  the  golden 
balls? 

BOY.     Um  —  uh. 

MILKMAID.       Ooh  ! 

BOY.     How  did  you  know  ? 

MILKMAID.     I  saw  him  on  the  way  to  the  market  one  day  — 

and  when  my  mother  wasn't  looking  at  me  I  gave  him  a 

farthing. 

BOY.     Is  he  a  good  juggler? 
MILKMAID.     He's  magic !     Why,  he  can  throw  three  golden 

balls  in  the  air  and  catch  them  with  one  hand  and  then 

keep  them  floating  in  the  air  in  a  circle. 
BOY.     And  can  he  balance  a  weathervane  on  his  nose  while 

it's  turning  ? 


SIX  WHO  PASS  WHILE  THE  LENTILS  BOIL     35 

MILKMAID.     Yes,  and  he  can  balance  an  egg  on  the  end  of  a 

long  stick  that  is  balanced  on  his  chin ! 
BOY.     Oh  —  I  wish  I  could  see  him. 

[Looks  at  the  pot  to  see  if  the  lentils  are  done. 
MILKMAID.     Come  on ! 
BOY.     Well  — 

[Begins  to  weaken  and  just  as  he  is  about  to  start,  the  Butter- 
fly  flits  past  him  into  the  Queen's  room. 
MILKMAID.     Oh  —  what  a  lovely  butterfly  ! 
BOY.     No  —  No  --  I   can't    go.       But    you    had    better 

hurry. 

MILKMAID.     Well,  I'll  try  to  catch  the  butterfly  first. 
BOY.     Oh,  no,  you  mustn't  touch  that  butterfly. 
MILKMAID.     Why  ? 

BOY.     Because  —  because  he's  my  friend. 
MILKMAID.     Silly ! 
BOY.     He  is  a  good  friend  and  he's  the  wisest  butterfly  in 

the  world. 

MILKMAID.     What  can  he  do? 
BOY.     He  can  almost  talk. 
MILKMAID.     Almost  ?  .  .  .     Oh,  I  know.     I'm  a  goose.     You 

want  to  play  a  trick  on  me  so  I'll  miss  the  beheading. 
BOY.     You'd  better  hurry. 
MILKMAID.     I  wish  you'd  come. 
BOY  (sadly).     I  can't.     I've  a  duty  to  perform. 
MILKMAID.     Aren't  duties  always  hard  ?     [Both  sigh. 

She  takes  up  her  milk  pail. 

BOY.     What  are  you  going  to  do  with  that  pail  ? 
MILKMAID.     I'm  going  to  stand  on  it.  ...     Good-by. 

[She  goes  out. 
BOY.     Good-by.     (He  watches  for  a  moment,  then  goes  to  the 

pot  and  tries  the  lentils;   then  whispers  through  door  to  the 

Queen)     The  lentils  are  getting  soft. 

[There  is  a  fumbling  in  the  passage  and  a  voice  is  heard, 

"  Help  the  blind.     Help  the  blind." 

[The  Butterfly  returns  to  the  top  of  the  cupboard. 

The  Blind  man  appears  at  the  door. 


36     SIX  WHO  PASS  WHILE  THE  LENTILS  BOIL 

PROLOGUE.     He's  blind,  but  he'll  show  you  how  the  blind 

can  see. 

BLIND  MAN  (sniffing).     Cooking  lentils? 
BOY.     Yes. 

BLIND  MAN.     Cook,  which  way  to  the  beheading? 
BOY.     Keep  straight  ahead  —  the  way  you  are  going,   old 

man. 

BLIND  MAN.     Don't  you  want  to  take  me  with  you  ? 
BOY.     I'm  not  going. 

BLIND  MAN.     Not  going  to  the  beheading  ? 
BOY.     No,  I  have  to  cook  the  lentils. 
BLIND  MAN.     Come  on  and  go  with  me  and  maybe  I'll  give 

you  a  farthing. 
BOY.     I  can't. 

BLIND  MAN.     Yes,  you  can.     Who  else  is  here  ? 
BOY  (swallowing:  if  s  hard  to  fib).     No  one. 
BLIND  MAN.     Can't  you  run  away?     Your  mother  won't 

know  you've  gone. 
BOY.     It's  my  duty  to  stay  here. 
BLIND  MAN.     It's  your  duty  to  help  a  poor  blind  man,  little 

boy. 
BOY.     Are  you  stone  blind  ? 

BLIND  MAN.       Yes. 

BOY.     Then  how  did  you  know  I  was  a  little  boy  ? 

BLIND  MAN.     Because  you  sound  like  a  little  boy. 

BOY.     Well,  if  you're  stone  blind  why  do  you  want  to  go  to 

the  beheading? 

BLIND  MAN.     I  can  see  with  my  ears. 
BOY.     Aw  — 

BLIND  MAN.     Didn't  I  know  you  were  a  little  boy  ? 
BOY.     Yes,  but  you  had  to  guess  twice.     First  you  thought 

I  was  a  cook. 

BLIND  MAN.     Well,  aren't  you  cooking  lentils  ? 
BOY.     Yes ;  but  you  can  smell  them. 
BLIND  MAN.     Well,  I  see  with  my  nose,  too. 
BOY.     Aw  —  how  can  you  see  with  your  nose  ? 
BLIND  MAN.     If  you  give  me  some  bread  I'll  show  you. 


SIX  WHO  PASS  WHILE  THE  LENTILS  BOIL     37 

BOY.     I  can't  give  you  any  bread,  but  I'll  give  you  some 

raw  lentils. 

BLIND  MAN.     All  right.     Give  me  lentils. 
BOY.     .  .  .  I'll  put  them  by  the  pot  —  Ready. 
BLIND  MAN.     All  right.     (Sniffs.     Walks  to  the  pot  and  gets 

lentils  and  puts  them  in  an  old  pouch)     Isn't  that  seeing  with 

my  nose? 
BOY.     H'm  !    (In  wonder)     Now  see  with  your  ears  and  I'll 

give  you  some  more  lentils. 
BLIND  MAN.     All  right.     Speak. 

[The  Boy  gets  behind  the  stool  and  speaks. 

The  Blind  man  goes  toward  him.     The  Boy  moves  around 

stealthily. 

BLIND  MAN.     You're  cheating.     You've  moved. 
BOY  (jumping  up  on  the  bench).     Well,  where  am  I? 
BLIND  MAN.     You're  standing  on  something. 
BOY.     How  did  you  guess  it? 
BLIND  MAN.     I  didn't  guess  it.     I  know  it. 
BOY.     Why  can't  I  do  that  ? 

BLIND  MAN.     You  can  if  you  try ;   but  it  takes  practice. 
BOY.     Can  you  see  the  door  now  ? 
BLIND  MAN.     No.     I've   turned   around   too    many    times. 

Besides  there  is  more  than  one  door. 
BOY.     Oh  —  m-m.  .  .     You  aren't  really  blind  ! 
BLIND  MAN.     Blind  people  learn  to  use  what   they  have. 

Once  I  too  could  see  with  my  eyes. 
BOY.     Just  like  me  ? 
BLIND  MAN.     Yes.     And  then  I  didn't  take  the  trouble  to 

see  with  my  ears  and  my  nose  and  my  fingers  —  after  I 

became  blind  I  had  to  learn  .  .  .     Why,  I  can  tell  whether 

a  man  who  passes  me  at  the  palace  gate  is  a  poor  man  or 

a  noble  or  a  merchant. 
BOY.     How  can  you  do  that  ? 
BLIND  MAN.     By  sound  of  the  step 
BOY.     Aw  —  how  can  you  do  that  ? 
BLIND  MAN.     Shut  your  eyes  and  try  it. 
BOY.     Well,  I  know  what  you  are.     That  would  be  easy. 


38     SIX  WHO   PASS  WHILE   THE   LENTILS   BOIL 

BLIND  MAN.     I'll  pretend  I'm  somebody  else. 

[Feels  with  his  stick;  touches  bench.     Feels  around  again. 
BOY.     Why  are  you  doing  that? 
BLIND  MAN.     To  see  how  far  I  can  walk  without  bumping 

into  something. 
BOY.     Um  — 
BLIND  MAN.     Ready. 
BOY  (hides  face  in  hands).     Yes. 
BLIND  MAN.     Don't  peep. 

[The  Boy  tries  hard  not  to. 
BOY.     I  won't. 
BLIND  MAN.     All  ready.     (Shuffles  like  a  commoner)     Who 

was  it  ? 

BOY.     A  poor  man. 
BLIND  MAN.     See  how  easy  ? 
BOY.     I  could  see  him  as  plain  as  if  I  had  my  eyes  open. 

.  .  .  Now  try  me  again. 
BLIND  MAN.     Ready. 
BOY,     All  right. 

[The  Blind  Man  seems  to  grow  in  height.     His  face  is  filled 

with  a  rare  brightness.     He  steadies  himself  a  moment  and 

then  walks  magnificently  down  the  room. 
BOY  (in  beautiful  wonder) .     A  noble  !    I  could  see  him. 
BLIND  MAN.     All  you  have  to  do  is  try. 
BOY.     I  always  thought  it  was  terrible  to  be  blind. 
BLIND  MAN.     Sometimes  it  is. 
BOY.     But  I  thought  everything  was  black. 
BLIND  MAN.     It  used  to  be  until  I  taught  myself  how  to  see. 
BOY.     Why  is  it  terrible  sometimes  ? 
BLIND  MAN.     Because  I  cannot  help  the  poor  who  need  help. 

If  I  had  money  I  could  feed  the  hungry  and  clothe  the 

poor  little  beggar  children  in  winter  ! 
BOY.     Would  a  pail  of  gold  and  a  pair  of  finger  rings  help  you 

feed  the  hungry  and  clothe  the  poor  little  beggar  children 

in  winter  ? 
BLIND  MAN.     A  pail  of  gold !     I  have  dreamed  of  what  I 

might  do  with  so  much  wealth ! 


SIX  WHO   PASS  WHILE  THE  LENTILS  BOIL     39 

BOY.     I  can  get  a  pail  of  gold  if  I  break  a  promise. 

BLIND  MAN.     Would  you  break  a  promise  ? 

BOY     .  .  .  No  —  but  —  No  ! 

BLIND  MAN.     Of  course  you  wouldn't. 

BOY.     I  couldn't  break  a  promise  for  two  pails  of  gold. 

BLIND  MAN.     Nor  twenty-two,  little  boy. 

BOY.  When  you  walked  like  a  noble  I  saw  a  beautiful  man 
behind  my  eyes  with  a  crown  of  gold. 

BLIND  MAN.  If  you  broke  a  promise  for  a  pail  of  gold  and 
two  finger  rings  you  would  never  see  a  beautiful  noble  with 
a  crown  of  gold  when  you  closed  your  eyes  .  .  . 

BOY.  Can  blind  men  see  beautiful  things  even  when  it's 
rainy  ? 

BLIND  MAN.  Blind  men  can  always  see  beautiful  things  if 
they  try.  Clouds  and  rain  are  beautiful  to  me  —  and 
when  I  get  wet  I  think  of  the  sunshine.  I  saw  sunshine 
with  my  eyes  when  I  was  a  little  boy.  Now  I  see  it  with 
my  whole  body  when  it  warms  me.  I  saw  rain  with  my 
eyes  when  I  was  a  little  boy.  Now  I  see  it  with  my  hands 
when  it  falls  on  them  —  drop  —  drop  —  drop  —  dropity 
—  dropity  —  and  I  love  it  because  it  makes  the  lentils 
grow. 

BOY.  I  never  thought  of  that.  Rain  makes  me  stay  indoors 
and  I  never  like  it  except  in  June. 

BLIND  MAN.     You  don't  have  to  stay  in  for  long. 

BOY.     Can  blind  men  see  beautiful  things  in  a  beheading  ? 

BLIND  MAN.  No.  But  I  must  be  there  with  the  crowd.  I 
shall  tell  stones  to  the  people  and  perhaps  they  will  give 
me  food  or  money. 

BOY.     Can't  you  stay  and  tell  me  stories  ? 

BLIND  MAN.  No.  I  must  be  on  my  way  ...  If  I  do  not 
see  the  beheading  I  cannot  tell  about  it  when  I  meet 
some  one  who  was  not  there.  Oh,  I  shall  make  a  thrilling 
tale  of  it. 

BOY.     Tell  it  to  me  when  you  come  back. 

BLIND  MAN.     If  you  give  me  some  cooked  lentils. 

BOY.     I'll  save  you  some. 


40     SIX  WHO  PASS  WHILE  THE  LENTILS  BOIL 

BLIND  MAN.     Are  the  lentils  nearly  done  ? 

BOY.     Half. 

BLIND  MAN.     I  must  be  on  my  way  then.  .  .  .     Good-by. 

[Starting  to  go  in  the  wrong  direction. 
BOY.     Here's  the  door. 
BLIND  MAN.     Thank  you,  little  boy.  .  .  .     Don't  forget  to 

see  with  your  ears  and  nose  and  fingers. 

[The  Blind  Man  goes  out. 
BOY.     I  won't. 
BLIND  MAN.     Good-by. 
BOY.     Good-by.     (The  Boy  covers  his  eyes  and  tries  to  see 

with  his  ears  and  his  nose)     It's  easier  with  the  ears. 

[Singing  is  heard. 

Enter  the  Ballad-Singer. 
SINGER.     Hello ! 
BOY.     Hello ! 
SINGER.     How  are  you  ? 
BOY.     I'm  very  well. 
SINGER.     That's  good. 
BOY.     Thank  you. 
SINGER.     Cooking  ? 
BOY.     Yes. 

SINGER  (coming  into  the  room).     Something  good? 
BOY.     Lentils. 
SINGER.     Give  me  some  ? 
BOY.     They  aren't  done. 
SINGER.     Nearly.     I  can  smell  them. 
BOY.     Do  you  like  them  ? 
SINGER.     When  I'm  hungry. 
BOY.     Are  you  hungry  now  ? 
SINGER.     I'm  always  hungry. 

[They  laugh. 

BOY.     Were  you  singing  ? 
SINGER.     Yes. 
BOY.     Do  you  like  to  sing  ? 
SINGER.     When  I  get  something  for  my  ballads. 
BOY.     Are  you  a  ballad-singer? 


SIX  WHO  PASS  WHILE  THE  LENTILS  BOIL    41 

SINGER.     Yes. 

BOY.     Sing  one  for  me  ? 

SINGER.     Give  me  some  lentils  ? 

BOY.     I'll  give  you  some  raw  lentils. 

SINGER.     I  want  some  of  the  cooked  ones. 

BOY.     They  aren't  done. 

SINGER.     Are  they  nearly  done? 

BOY.     More  than  half. 

SINGER.     I  like  them  that  way. 

BOY.     All  right.     Sing  me  a  ballad. 

SINGER.     Well,  give  me  the  lentils  first. 

BOY.     Oh,  no,  sing  the  ballad  first. 

SINGER.     No,  sir,  give  me  the  lentils  first. 

BOY.     That  isn't  fair. 

SINGER.     Why  not  ?     After  I  sing  to  you  maybe  you  won't 

pay  me. 

BOY.     Yes,  I  will. 

SINGER.     Then  why  not  pay  me  first  ? 
BOY.     You  might  not  sing. 
SINGER  (laughing).     Yes,  I  will. 
BOY  (laughing).     Well,  I'll  give  you  some  lentils  at  the  end 

of  each  verse. 
SINGER.     That's  a  bargain. 
BOY.     Sing. 
SINGER  (sings  one  line). 

Six  stalwart  sons  the  miller  had  — 

Give  me  the  lentils. 
BOY.     Finish  that  verse. 
SINGER.     I  did  finish  it. 

BOY.     Now  that's  not  fair.     You  only  sang  a  line. 
SINGER.     Well,  a  line's  a  verse. 
BOY  (with  a  gesture  that  indicates  how  long  a  verse  ought  to  be). 

I  meant  a  whole  verse. 

SINGER  (mimicking  the  gesture).     A  line's  a  whole  verse. 
BOY.     Oh,  now,  be  fair,  I  mean  a  whole,  whole  verse. 
SINGER.     You  mean  a  stanza. 
BOY.     I  always  heard  it  called  a  verse. 


42     SIX  WHO  PASS  WHILE  THE  LENTILS  BOIL 

SINGER.     Well,  keep  the  bargain.     I  sang  a  verse.     Give 

me  some  lentils. 
BOY  (rising  and  taking  a  very  few  lentils  on  his  spoon) .     Next 

time  I  mean  a  stanza.  .  .  .     Here  are  some  lentils. 

[The  Ballad-Singer  eyes  the  meager  portion,  cools  it  and  eats. 
SINGER.     Stingy. 
BOY.     Isn't  that  some  lentils  ? 
SINGER  (laughs) .     Well  — 
BOY.     Now  begin  again. 

SINGER.     At  the  end  of  every  stanza  a  spoonful  of  lentils. 
BOY.     I  didn't  say  a  spoonful. 

SINGER  (starts  to  go).     Very  well,  I  won't  sing  a  ballad. 
BOY.     All  right.     I'll  give  you  a  spoonful  at  the  end  of  each 

—  stanza. 

[He  sits  on  the  floor  by  the  pot  of  lentils. 
SINGER  (sings) . 

The  Ballad  of  the  Miller  and  His  Six  Sons 

Six  stalwart  sons  the  miller  had 

All  brave  and  fair  to  see  — 

He  taught  them  each  a  worthy  trade  — 

And  they  grew  gallantly. 

Tara  —  da  —  da  —  da-da-da  —  da-da-da 

Tara  —  da  —  da  —  da-de  —  da-dee. 

Give  me  some  lentils. 
BOY.     Here  .  .  .  Hurry  up. 
SINGER  (sings). 

The  first  was  John  of  the  dimpled  chin 

And  a  fist  of  iron  had  he  — 

He  learned  to  wield  the  broadsword  well 

And  turned  to  soldiery. 

Tara  —  da  —  da,  etc. 

BOY.     Please  !  Please  don't  stop. 

SINGER.     Keep  to  the  bargain. 

BOY.     Here,  take  two  spoonfuls  and  finish  without  stopping. 


SIX  WHO   PASS  WHILE  THE  LENTILS  BOIL     43 

SINGER  (sings  rest  of  ballad) . 

The  second  son  was  christened  Hugh 

And  curly  locks  had  he  — 

He  learned  to  use  the  tabor  and  lute 

And  turned  to  minstrelsy. 

Tara  —  da  —  da,  etc. 

The  third  was  James  of  the  gentle  ways 

And  speech  of  gold  had  he  — 

He  learned  his  psalms  and  learned  his  creed 

And  turned  to  simony. 

Tara  —  da  —  da,  etc. 

The  fourth  was  Dick  of  the  hazel  eye, 

And  a  steady  hand  had  he  — 

With  a  hammer  and  saw  and  a  chest  of  tools 

He  turned  to  carpentry. 

Tara  —  da  —  da,  etc. 

The  fifth  was  Ned  of  the  velvet  tread 

And  feather  fingers  had  he. 

He  used  his  gifts  in  a  naughty  way 

And  turned  to  burglary. 

Tara  —  da  —  da,  etc. 

The  sixth  was  Robin,  surnamed  the  Rare, 

For  always  young  was  he  — 

He  learned  the  joy  of  this  sunny  world 

And  turned  to  poetry. 

Tara  —  da  —  da,  etc. 

The  Miller  approached  three  score  and  ten, 

A  happy  man  was  he, 

His  five  good  sons  and  the  one  who  was  bad 

All  turned  to  gallantry. 

Tara  —  da  —  da,  etc. 

BOY.     Sing  me  another. 

SINGER.     A  spoonful  at  the  end  of  ever>  stanza. 


44     SIX  WHO  PASS  WHILE  THE  LENTILS  BOIL 

BOY.     Don't  stop  after  you  begin. 
SINGER.     Pay  me  in  advance. 
BOY.     I  suppose  I'll  have  to. 
[He  feeds  the  Ballad- Singer. 
SINGER  (sings  second  ballad). 

The  Ballad  of  the  Three  Little  Pigs 

Two  little  pigs  were  pink  —  pink  —  pink  — 
And  one  little  pig  was  black  —  black  — 
The  three  little  pigs  were  very  good  friends, 
But  one  little  pig  was  black  —  black. 

Three  little  pigs  would  play  —  play  —  play  — 
But  one  little  pig  was  black  —  black  — 
And  three  little  pigs  would  have  a  jolly  time 
Though  one  little  pig  was  black  —  black. 

Three  little  pigs  soon  grew  —  grew  —  grew  — 
And  one  little  pig  was  black  —  black. 
The  three  little  pigs  became  fat  hogs  — 
And  one  fat  hog  was  black  —  black. 

The  two  fat  hogs  were  pink  —  pink  —  pink  — 
And  one  fat  hog  was  black  —  black. 
The  three  fat  hogs  all  made  good  ham, 
Though  one  fat  hog  was  black  —  black. 

BOY.     Sing  me  another. 
SINGER.     I  can't.     I'm  tired. 

BOY.     Are  you  going  to  sing  those  at  the  beheading  ? 
SINGER.     What  beheading  ? 
BOY.     At  the  Queen's  beheading. 
SINGER.     Where  ? 
BOY.     Over  there. 
SINGER.     When  ? 
BOY.     To-day. 

SINGER.     I  must  be  going.     Certainly  I'll  sing  there  and  I'll 
take  up  a  collection. 


SIX  WHO  PASS  WHILE  THE  LENTILS  BOIL     45 

BOY.     It's  going  to  be  before  the  King's  four  clocks  strike 

twelve. 

SINGER.     It's  nearly  time  now.     If  I  can  collect  a  piece  of  gold 

I  can  buy  a  vermilion  robe  and  sing  at  the  King's  court. 

BOY.     I  could  collect  a  pail  of  gold  and  two  finger  rings  and 

sit  at  the  feet  of  the  King  if  I'd  break  a  promise. 
SINGER.     Perhaps  you  will. 
BOY.     Would  you  ? 

SINGER.  I'd  rather  sing  along  the  highway  all  my  life.  It 
is  better  to  dream  of  a  vermilion  robe  than  to  have  one  that 
is  not  honestly  got. 

?}OY.     The  Blind  Man  said  something  like  that. 
SINGER.     Who  said  what  ? 

BOY.     The  Blind  Man  said  if  I  broke  a  promise  I'd  never 
again  see  a  beautiful  noble  with  a  golden  crown  when  I 
closed  my  eyes. 
SINGER.     He  was  right. 
BOY.     When  you  get  your  vermilion  robe  will  you  let  me 

see  it  ? 

SINGER.     That  I  will.  .  .  .     Good-by. 
BOY.     Good-by. 

[Singer  goes  out. 
BOY  (hums  a  snatch  of  the  ballads) . 

[The  Headsman  steps  into  the  door  and  plants  his  axe  beside 
him  for  an  impressive  picture.  The  Boy  turns  and  starts 
in  terror. 

HEADSMAN.     Have  you  seen  the  Queen  ? 
BOY.     Sir  ? 

HEADSMAN.     Have  you  seen  the  Queen  ? 
BOY.     How  should  I,  sir  ?     I've  been  cooking  the  lentils. 
HEADSMAN.     She  is  here  ! 
BOY.     How  —  could  —  she  —  be  —  here,  sir  ? 
HEADSMAN.     Well,  if  she  isn't  here,  where  is  she  ? 
BOY  (relieved) .     I  don't  know  where  she  is  if  she  isn't  here,  sir. 
HEADSMAN.     She  has  too  much  sense  to  hide  so  near  the  castle 
and  on  the  short  cut  to  the  headsman's  block  .     .     .   Do 
you  know  who  I  am  ? 


46     SIX  WHO  PASS  WHILE  THE  LENTILS  BOIL 

BOY.     I  think  so  —  sir. 

HEADSMAN.     Think  ?     Don't  you  know  ? 

BOY.     Yes,  sir. 

HEADSMAN.     Who  am  I  then  ? 

BOY.     You're  the  Dreadful  Headsman. 

HEADSMAN.     I  am  the  winder  of  the  king's  four  clocks  and 

when  I  am  needed  I  am  the  best  headsman  in  three  king 
doms.     And  this  is  my  axe. 
BOY.     Is  it  sharp  ? 
HEADSMAN.     It  will  split  a  hair  in  two. 

[Runs  finger  near  blade  meaningly. 
BOY.     Oh ! 

HEADSMAN.     A  hair  in  two  ! 

BOY.     Would  you  really  cut  off  the  Queen's  head  ? 
HEADSMAN.     That's  my  business  :   to  cut  off  heads  and  the 

nobler  the  head  the  better  my  business. 
BOY.     She's  such  a  nice  queen. 
HEADSMAN.     Have  you  seen  her  ? 
BOY.     Y  —  es,  sir. 
HEADSMAN.     When  ? 

BOY.     One  day  —  when  I  was  boiling  some  lentils. 
HEADSMAN.     Did  you  see  her  neck  ? 
BOY.     Yes,  sir. 

HEADSMAN.     Not  much  bigger  than  a  hair. 
BOY  (desperately  friendly} .     Have  you  seen  my  knife  ? 
HEADSMAN  (sharply).     Tm  talking  about  the  Queen  and  I'm 

going  to  talk  about  myself  until  I  hear  the  King's  trumpeter 

calling  me  to  the  beheading. 
BOY      Yes,  sir. 

[Edging  between  the  bench  and  door  of  the  room  where  the 

Queen  is  hidden. 

HEADSMAN.       Sit  down. 

BOY.     I'd  rather  stand,  sir. 

HEADSMAN.     Sit  down!    And  I'll  tell  you  how  I'm  going  to 

behead  the  Queen. 
BOY.     You  can't  behead  her  after  the  King's  four  clocks 

have  struck  twelve. 


SIX  WHO  PASS  WHILE  THE   LENTILS  BOIL     47 

HEADSMAN.     How  did  you  know  that  ? 

BOY  (realizing  his  blunder) .     Well  — 

HEADSMAN.     Nobody  knows  that  except  the  royal  family  and 

people  of  the  court. 
BOY.     A  little  —  bird  told  —  me. 
HEADSMAN.     Where  is  the  little  bird  that  I  may  cut  its  head 

off? 
BOY.     Don't  hurt  the  little  bird,  but  tell  me  how  you  are 

going  to  behead  the  Queen. 
HEADSMAN.     Well  -       (At    the    stool)     This    is    the    block. 

There's  the  Queen  behind  the  iron  gate.     We'll  say  that 

door  is  the  gate. 

(The  Boy  starts) 

And  out  there  is  the  crowd.     Now,  I  appear  like  this  and 

walk  up  the  steps.     The  crowd  cheers,  so  I  bow  and  show 

myself  and  my  axe.     Then  I  walk  over  to  the  gate  — 
BOY.     Don't  go  in  there.     That's  my  mother's  room  and  you 

might  frighten  her. 

HEADSMAN.     Who's  in  your  mother's  room  ? 
BOY.     She  is. 
HEADSMAN.     Well,  if  she's  in  there,  maybe  she'd  like  to  hear 

my  story. 

BOY.     She's  in  bed. 
HEADSMAN.     Sick ?     (The   Boy  nods  vigorously)     All  right. 

.  .  .  Well,  I've  bowed  to  the  crowd  and  I  start  for  the 

Queen.  —  If  you  won't  open  the  door,  you  pretend  you're 

the  Queen. 

BOY.     I  don't  want  to  be  the  Queen. 
HEADSMAN.     Come  on  and  pretend.     I  walk  up  to  the  gate 

—  so,  and  open  it  and  then  I  say  "Your  Majesty,  I'm 

going  to  cut  off  you  head"  and  she  bows  —  bow  —  (The 

Boy  bows)     And  then  I  say  "Are  you  ready?"  and  she 

says,  "I  am  ready."     Then  I  blindfold  her  — 
BOY.     Now,  don't  blindfold  me,  sir ! 
HEADSMAN.     I'm  showing  you  how  it's  done. 
BOY.     But  if  you  blindfold  me  I  can't  see  when  you  do 

it. 


48     SIX  WHO  PASS  WHILE  THE  LENTILS  BOIL 

HEADSMAN    (admitting    the    point).     All    right.  .  .  .     Then 

I  blindfold  her  and  I  lead  her  to  the  block  and  I  say, 

" Have  you  made  your  peace  with  Heaven?"  and  she 

says,  "Yes.".  .  . 

BOY.     If  you  won't  tell  me  any  more  I'll  give  you  my  knife. 
HEADSMAN.     Aren't  you  interested  ? 
BOY.     Yes,  but  your  axe  is  so  sharp  and  it  might  slip. 
HEADSMAN.     Sharp?     It  will  cut  a  hair  in  two,  but  I  know 

how  to  handle  it.  .  .  .  Come  on  .  .  .   (The  Boy  reluctantly 

falls  into  the  picture  again)     And  then  .  .  .  (Raising  his 

axe)     And  then  .  .  .  (Headsman  sees  the  Butterfly)     And 

then  .  .  .     How-d'-ye-do,  Butterfly  ? 

[The  Boy  runs  to  the  pot  unnoticed  by  the  Headsman. 
BOY.     Lentils,  lentils,  boil  the  time  away 

That  my  good  queen  may  live  to-day. 

[The  Headsman  and  the  Butterfly  are  having  quite  a  game. 

Suddenly  the  great  clock  begins  to  strike  and  the  two  next 

larger  follow  slowly. 

The  Headsman  rushes  to  the  back  door  with  his  axe. 
HEADSMAN.     Why  doesn't  the  trumpeter  blow  his  call ! 

[The  Boy  counts  the  strokes  of  the  clock  and  as  the  third  clock 

strikes  twelve  he  rushes  to  the  door  of  the  bedroom. 
BOY.     Queen  !  Queen  !  It's  mid-day. 
HEADSMAN.     Queen  —  queen  —  (He   strides   to   the   bedroom 

and  drags  the  Queen  out)     The  little  clock  hasn't  struck  yet ! 

(He  pulls  the  Queen  toward  the  rear  door  and  shouts)     Here  ! 

Here  !  don't  let  the  little  clock  strike  !     I've  won  the  pail 

of  gold ! 

[  The  Boy  has  set  the  bench  in  the  doorway  so  that  the  Headsman 

stumbles.     The  Butterfly  keeps  flying  against  the  Headsman's 

nose,  which  makes  him  sneeze. 
BOY.     No  one  heard  you  ! 
QUEEN.     Let  me  go  !     Let  me  go  ! 
HEADSMAN  (sneezing  as  only  a  headsman  can) .     The  Queen  ! 

The  Queen ! 

(The  little  clock  begins  to  strike. 

The  Boy  counts  eagerly,  one,  two,  three,  etc. 


SIX  WHO  PASS  WHILE  THE  LENTILS  BOIL     49 

Between  strokes  the  Headsman  sneezes  and   shouts)     The 

Queen  !     The  Queen  ! 

[At  the  fifth  stroke  the  Headsman  falls  on  his  knees.     The 

Queen  becomes  regal,  her  foot  on  his  neck. 

The  Boy  kneels  at  her  side. 

QUEEN.  Base  villain !  According  to  the  law  I  am  saved ! 
But  you  are  doomed.  As  Winder  of  the  King's  four  clocks 
the  law  commands  that  you  be  decapitated  because  the 
four  clocks  did  not  strike  together.  Do  you  know  that 
law? 

HEADSMAN.  Oh,  Lady,  I  do,  but  I  did  but  do  my  duty.  I 
was  sharpening  my  axe  this  morning  and  I  couldn't  wind 
the  clocks.  Intercede  for  me. 

QUEEN.     It  is  useless. 

BOY.     Is  there  any  other  headsman  ? 

QUEEN.  The  law  says  the  Chief  Headsman  must  behead 
the  Chief  Winder  of  the  King's  four  clocks. 

BOY.     Can  the  Dreadful  Headsman  behead  himself? 

QUEEN.     Aye,  there's  the  difficulty. 

HEADSMAN.     Oh,  your  Majesty,  pardon  me  ! 

BOY.     Yes,  pardon  him. 

QUEEN.  On  one  condition  :  He  is  to  give  his  axe  to  the 
museum  and  devote  all  his  old  age  to  the  care  of  the  King's 
four  clocks.  .  .  .  For  myself,  I  shall  pass  a  law  requiring 
the  ladies  of  the  court  to  wear  no  jewels.  So,  if  the  King's 
aunt  can  wear  no  rings,  she  assuredly  cannot  have  a  ring- 
toe,  and  hereafter  I  may  step  where  I  please.  ...  Sir 
Headsman,  lead  the  way.  .  .  .  And  now,  my  little  boy, 
to  you  I  grant  every  Friday  afternoon  an  hour's  sport  with 
the  Mime,  a  spotted  cow  for  the  little  Milkmaid,  a  cushion 
and  a  canopy  at  the  palace  gate  for  the  Blind  Man,  a  ver 
milion  cloak  for  the  Ballad-Singer,  a  velvet  gown,  a  silken 
kerchief  and  a  cloth-of-gold  bonnet  for  your  mother,  and 
for  yourself  a  milk-white  palfrey,  two  pails  of  gold,  two 
finger  rings,  a  castle  and  a  sword.  .  .  .  Arise,  Sir  Little 
Boy.  .  .  .  Your  arm. 

BOY.     May  I  take  my  knife,  your  Majesty  ? 


50     SIX  WHO  PASS  WHILE  THE  LENTILS  BOIL 

QUEEN.  That  you  may.  (He  gets  the  knife  and  returns  to 
her.  She  lays  her  hand  on  his  arm)  Sir  Headsman,  an 
nounce  our  coming. 

HEADSMAN.  Make  way  —  make  way  —  for  her  Majesty 
the  Queen. 

QUEEN  (correcting).     And  Sir  Little  Boy. 

HEADSMAN.     What's  his  other  name,  your  Majesty  ? 

BOY  (whispering  with  the  wonder  of  it  all) .     Davie. 

QUEEN  (to  the  Headsman).     Davie. 

HEADSMAN.     Make  way  —  make  way  for  her  Majesty  the 
Queen  and  Sir  Davie  Little  Boy. 
[They  go  out. 

Immediately  the  Boy  returns  and  gets  the  pot  of  lentils  and 
runs  after  the  Queen  as 

The  Curtains  Close. 


'  VOICES  ' 

HORTENSE  FLEXNER 

Miss  HORTENSE  FLEXNER  is  a  resident  of  Louisville, 
Kentucky,  where  she  was  born  on  April  10,  1885.  In  1903 
she  entered  Bryn  Mawr,  but  remained  there  only  for  the 
Freshman  year,  completing  her  academic  education  at  the 
University  of  Michigan.  There  she  received  the  degree  of 
A.B.  in  1907  and  the  degree  of  A.M.  in  1910. 

In  addition  to  "Voices*',  which  was  printed  originally  in 
The  Seven  Arts,  Miss  Flexner  is  the  author  of  a  number  of 
poems  which  have  been  printed  in  various  magazines. 

Stuart  Walker  has  produced  "Voices"  with  his  Port 
manteau  Company  and  has  in  his  repertory  for  future  pro 
duction  Miss  Flexner 's  "Three  Wise  Men  of  Gotham"  and 
"The  Road."  Her  "The  Broken  God"  was  produced  by 
the  Little  Theatre  Society  of  Indiana  at  Indianapolis  in 
January,  1916. 


VOICES 


BY  HORTENSE  FLEXNER 


"Voices"  was  originally  produced  under  the  direction  of 
Stuart  Walker  and  the  Portmanteau  Company,  New  York, 
1916. 

Original  Cast 

YVONNE Judith  Lowry 

THE  OTHER     ....  Florence  Wollersen 


COPYRIGHT,  BY  HORTENSE  FLEXNEB. 
All  rights  reserved. 

Printed  originally  in  Seven  Arts. 

Application  for  the  right  of  performing  "Voices  ",  must  be  made  to  Miss  Hortense 
Flexner,  948  South  Second  Street,  Louisville,  Kentucky,  or  to  Mr.  Stuart  Walker, 
304  Carnegie  Hall,  New  York  City. 


"VOICES" 

SCENE.  The  main  street  of  Domremy,  in  front  of  the  shattered 
church  sacred  to  Jeanne  D'Arc.  Roofless  houses  and  broken 
buildings  stand  huddled  in  ruins.  The  place  is  deserted  and  silent. 
From  the  right  comes  a  peasant  girl,  Yvonne,  finely  made  and 
young.  She  wears  a  coarse,  wool  skirt  and  a  gray  shawl  loosely 
folded  about  her  shoulders.  Taking  her  way  down  the  sunken 
street,  she  pauses  before  the  door  of  the  church  and  kneels.  As 
she  does  so,  another  peasant  girl,  slight  and  erect,  comes  silently 
from  the  church.  The  time  is  late  afternoon  in  May.  The 
south  wind  is  stirring.  Yvonne  stands. 
YVONNE.  I  heard  a  voice  that  called  across  the  wind. 
THE  OTHER.  A  voice  ?  My  thoughts  were  prayers. 

What  vision  I  have  seen,  no  words  have  said. 
YVONNE.     The  dead !     Their  souls  are  strange  upon  the  air, 

And  cannot  find  the  way  to  Paradise. 

Perhaps  they  spoke. 
THE  OTHER.     Or  cannon  far  away. 
YVONNE  (covering  her  ears) .     O,  no  — 
THE  OTHER.     Alas  —  and  did  you  live  in  Domremy  ? 
YVONNE.     Before  they  came.     But  now 

The  great  shells  have  not  left  a  house  —  not  one. 

Even  the  Church, 

Jeanne's  church  in  which  she  heard  the  angels  speak, 

Is  broken  to  the  ground  — 
THE  OTHER.     Jeanne  dwelt  once  in  a  prison  far  from  home ; 

There  was  a  day  —  ah  well  — 

She  can  forego  the  church. 


"VOICES" 


YVONNE  (with  energy).     But  no  !  We  will  rebuild  it  stone  by 

stone, 

There  is  no  villager  shall  rest 
Till  it  is  whole. 
THE  OTHER.     There's  better  work  to  do  for  Jeanne 

Than  build  a  church. 
YVONNE.     And  let  her  think  we  have  forgot  again  ? 

Or  that  we  are  afraid  ? 

THE  OTHER.     It  was  so  long  ago  —  and  now  — 
YVONNE.     But  Jeanne  is  Domremy  ! 
We  think  of  her,  as  if  she  had  not  died. 
In  early  Spring 

We  make  a  pageant  —  every  Spring  for  Jeanne, 
To  show  her  as  a  girl,  here  where  she  lived, 
And  heard  the  voices  first  —  a  shepherd  girl, 
In  clothes  like  these,  like  yours. 
I  was  the  Maid  last  May  ! 

THE  OTHER.     You  Jeanne  ?     And  rode  a  charger  too  ? 
In  armor  like  a  man's.     And  were  you  mocked, 
Until  you  crowned  the  King  that  day  at  Rheims, 
Thrown  in  a  cell  —  and  burned  —  all  in  the  play  ? 
YVONNE.     You  saw  it  then  ?     Perhaps  you  lived  near  by  ? 
THE  OTHER.     Near  by. 
YVONNE.     And  are  you  coming  now  to  find  the  things 

The  soldiers  have  not  battered  to  a  ruin  ? 
THE  OTHER.     Not  I  —  no  —  no  — 
YVONNE  (with  defiance).     Nor  I ! 

THE  OTHER.     What  then  ?     A  hidden  relic  in  the  church  ? 
YVONNE.     I  should  not  seek  for  that  in  Domremy. 
The  one  I  wore  so  many  years  for  luck, 
About  my  throat,  I  gave  the  lad  who  played 
Jeanne's  lover  in  the  fete.     (Stolidly) 
Relic  and  lad  are  buried  in  a  ditch 
Beyond  Arras  —  how  should  I  know  ? 
THE  OTHER.     And  so  you  came  ? 
YVONNE.     I  came  to  pray  Jeanne  D'Arc. 
THE  OTHER.     Trudged  all  the  way  through  blood  and  mire  — 


"VOICES"  57 


YVONNE.     To  pray  her  come  again.     They  say  she  hears, 

When  May  is  young,  and  that  her  spirit  flies 

Close  —  close  to  Domremy  when  leaves  are  new, 

And  tender  things  are  born. 

THE  OTHER.     You'd  have  her  come?     Is  there  not   strife 
enough  ? 

France  has  good  friends,  and  all  the  kings  are  crowned. 
YVONNE.     Jeanne  D'Arc  would  make  an  end  of  war. 

She'd  stop  the  guns  ! 

When  she  was  just  a  girl  —  alone  and  mocked, 

She  took  a  sword  and  flashed  it  through  the  land, 

Until  she  pressed  the  foe  upon  the  sea. 

And  would  she  not  to-day  ? 

Shall  one  love  France  the  less  for  being  safe 

In  Paradise  ? 

THE  OTHER.     Poor  Jeanne. 

YVONNE  (remembering) .     It  was  a  miracle  —          _ 
THE  OTHER.     I  do  not  know. 
YVONNE.     She  was  so  young,  so  slight  —  but  all  her  soul 

Burned  as  a  torch. 

A  spirit  lies  in  Jeanne  to  wake  the  dead. 

If  she  should  come,  we  could  not  wait  and  wait, 

Gain  here,  lose  there,  hide  in  the  trenches,  wait, 

And  drag  the  war  to  years. 

O,  she  would  show  the  way  ! 

No  girl,  this  time,  but  saint  she'd  draw  her  sword  — 
THE  OTHER  (sharply) .     No  —  no  — 
YVONNE  (mocking).     Jeanne  D'Arc  without  a  sword  ! 
THE  OTHER.     Without  a  sword  ! 

YVONNE.     It  was  her  strength.     She  saw  it  in  a  dream  — 
THE  OTHER.     Jeanne  had  her  soul  before  she  had  the  sword. 
YVONNE  (scornfully).     A  soul  against  the  guns  ! 
THE  OTHER.     It  is  the  only  thing  they  may  not  break. 
YVONNE.     But  who  would  know  Jeanne  D'Arc  without  her 

sword  ? 

THE  OTHER.     Hush !     She  will  weep  in  Paradise  for  that. 
YVONNE  (frightened).     I  love  her  — 


58  "VOICES" 


THE  OTHER.     She  hates  her  sword  ! 

YVONNE.     You  dare  !     She  carried  it  the  day 

They  crowned  the  King. 

THE  OTHER.     The  day  she  failed  !     Poor  Jeanne  !     She  did 
not  know 

A  peasant  girl  must  never  crown  a  king, 

Nor  fight  his  foes.     If  she  had  known  — 

If  she  had  only  known  — 
YVONNE  (more  and  more  amazed) .     But  Jeanne  did  know.      A 

spirit  showed  the  way. 

THE  OTHER  (continuing) .     She  would  have  struck  the  King  — 
there  as  he  knelt, 

And  killed  him  with  her  sword.     It  was  her  sin 

She  did  not  kill  the  King.     He  was  the  foe 

Of  France  —  all  kings  are  foes  of  all  the  men 

They  rule.     How  else  should  they  send  men  to  death 

For  little  things  ?     What  that  a  King  can  fear 

Is  worth  the  death  of  one  —  one  peasant  lad, 

Who  loves  the  sky  ? 

Jeanne  was  no  saint  —  she  was  a  shepherd  girl, 

Who  did  not  know  how  things  would  come  to  pass. 
YVONNE.     The  voices  spoke  — 
THE  OTHER.     O  yes  —  the  voices.     Better  had  she  heard 

Her  pitying  heart  — 
YVONNE.     Jeanne  was  a  soldier  maid.     Her  pitying  heart 

Was  but  the  girl  — 
THE  OTHER.     It  was  herself  —  the  most  of  her  —  the  flame  ! 

And  it  shall  lead  when  she  shall  come  again. 
YVONNE.     A  pitying  heart  the  leader  of  a  host  ? 
THE  OTHER  (gladly).     Yes  —  yes.     A  pitying  heart ! 
YVONNE  (as  if  humoring  one  a  little  mad).     And  what  host 

then? 
THE  OTHER.     A  host  of  pitying  hearts,  which  kings  shall  fear, 

More  than  defeat  and  death. 
YVONNE  (making  ready  to  go) .     It  is  a  dream  —  as  mine  —  a 

dream. 
THE  OTHER.     The  voices  were  not  more. 


"VOICES"  59 


YVONNE.     If  that  were  true,  Jeanne  would  be  here  to-day, 

And  my  prayer  heard. 
THE  OTHER  (continuing  in  exaltation) .  An  army  kings  shall  fear, 

A  silent  host, 

Scattered  —  bereft  - 

Mourning  at  broken  hearthstones  in  all  lands, 

Hating  one  thing  —  a  hate  that  makes  them  kin, 

Stronger  than  blood  and  bone  —  the  hate  of  death. 

Which  is  their  love  of  life. 

These  Jeanne  shall  lead,  the  brooding  ones  who  give 

In  grief  and  tears,  knowing  so  well  the  end, 

The  raw  earth  mound  that's  left,  where  kings  have  passed. 

These  Jeanne  shall  find  - 

YVONNE  (stirred) .     Women  —  women  of  France. 
THE  OTHER.     Women  of  all  the  earth  shall  be  Jeanne's 
strength. 

And  she  shall  go  to  them, 

In  peasant  clothes  —  a  maid  ! 

And  where  she  finds  a  woman  at  her  toil, 

She'll  stop  and  say, 

"Would  you  have  back  your  dead?" 

And  by  their  answer  they  shall  follow  Jeanne, 

Until  her  army,  swelling  like  a  flood, 

Pours  down  the  earth  undammed. 

What  can  the  kings  build  up  against  this  tide, 

The  woe  and  rage,  impatience  and  despair 

Of  all  the  withheld  women  of  all  years, 

Borne  down  on  them  at  last  ? 

What  can  they  do,  if  men  no  longer  mad, 

But  grim  with  agony  and  blood  and  death, 

Leap  from  the  trenches,  break  the  mighty  guns, 

And  with  the  women  turn  their  faces  home  ? 

O,  in  that  hour  the  puny  kings  shall  see 

As  some  great  mountain  blotting  out  the  sun, 

The  shadow  of  our  wrath, 

And  know  defeat  —  all  kings  alike  — 

But  people  shall  be  free ! 


60  «  VOICES  " 


YVONNE  (rapt).     Jeanne  and  the  women  —  when  ? 

THE  OTHER.     She  was  a  peasant  girl  — 

YVONNE  (looking  down  at  her  wooden  shoes).     A  peasant  girl ! 

(As  she  lifts  her  eyes,  she  is  alone.     With  terror)     Voices  ! 

It  was  the  Maid  herself. 

I  am  afraid. 

[She  kneels  upon  the  stone  step  of  the  church,  in  the  crack  of 

which,  strangely,  a  lily  is  growing. 

CURTAIN 


THE  MERRY  MERRY  CUCKOO 

JEANNETTE  MARKS 

Miss  JEANNETTE  MARKS  was  born  in  1875  in  Chattanooga, 
Tennessee,  but  spent  her  early  life  in  Philadelphia.  Her 
father,  the  late  William  Dennis  Marks,  was  Professor  of 
Dynamics  at  the  University  of  Pennsylvania  and  President 
of  the  Edison  Electric  Light  Company,  besides  being  the 
author  of  several  scientific  books.  Miss  Marks  attended 
school  at  Dresden  and  iii  this  country  before  entering 
Wellesley  College,  where  she  was  graduated  in  1900. 
After  a  year  of  graduate  work  at  Wellesley,  she  became 
instructress  in  the  department  of  English  Literature  at 
Mt.  Holyoke  College,  where  she  is  now  teaching  Nine 
teenth  Century  Poetry  and  Play  Writing.  There  she  has 
instituted  the  Poetry  Shop  Talks,  where  poets  and  writers 
speak  to  the  students  on  the  authors  of  the  day. 

Miss  Marks'  interest  in  Wales  was  the  result  of  several 
summers  spent  among  the  Northern  Welsh  mountains,  where 
she  walked  over  the  hills  and  through  the  valleys,  knap 
sack  on  back,  and  became  intimately  acquainted  with  Welsh 
peasant  life. 

The  result  of  her  intimate  observation  is  to  be  found  in 
her  books  and  in  her  many  short  stories  published  in 
magazines. 

Several  years  ago,  on  a  homeward  voyage  from  England, 
Edward  Knobloch  discussed  with  the  author  the  dramatic 
possibilities  of  some  of  her  short  stories.  "Three  Welsh 
Plays "  is  the  result.  Two  of  these  were  entered  by  an  ac- 


62      THE  MERRY  MERRY  CUCKOO 

quaintance,  without  the  author's  knowledge,  in  the  com 
petition  for  Lord  Howard  DeWalden's  prize  for  the  best 
Welsh  play  in  1911,  and  were  awarded  first  place  by  the 
Welsh  National  Theatre,  although  the  prize  had  been  planned 
for  a  three-act  play. 

Her  published  works  are  :  "The  Cheerful  Cricket",  1907; 
"The  English  Pastoral",  1908;  "Through  Welsh  Door 
ways",  1909 ;  "The  End  of  a  Song",  1911 ;  "A  Girl's  School 
Days  and  After",  1911;  "Gallant  Little  Wales",  1912; 
"Vacation  Camping  for  Girls",  1913;  "Leviathan",  1913; 
"Early  English  Hero  Tales",  1915;  "The  Sun  Chaser", 
in  Best  Short  Stories  for  1916;  "Three  Welsh  Plays",  1917; 
"Madame  France"  and  "Courage",  1919. 


THE  MERRY  MERRY  CUCKOO 


BY  JEANNETTE  MARKS 


"The  Merry  Merry  Cuckoo"  was  originally  produced  at 
the  Toy  Theatre,  Boston,  in  1911. 

Original  Cast 

DAVID        Mr.  Mac  Gregor  Jenkins 

ANNIE        Ruth  B.  Delano 

PASTOR  MORRIS Mr.  Pettis 

LOWRY  PRICHARD Mary  Kellogg 

GUTO  PRICHARD Mr.  Clarke 


COPYRIGHT,  1917,  BY  LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY. 
All  rights  reserved. 

Reprinted  from  "Three  Welsh  Plays"  by  permission  of,  and  special  arrangement 
with,  Miss  Jeannette  Marks  and  Little,  Brown,  and  Company. 

Application  for  the  right  of  performing  "The  Merry  Merry  Cuckoo"  must  be 
made  to  Jeannette  Marks,  South  Hadley,  Mass. 


THE  MERRY  MERRY  CUCKOO 

SCENE.  A  garden.  Cottage  at  back  running  from  right  to 
center.  A  group  of  three  windows  in  the  shape  of  a  bay, 
showing  a  bed  inside  and  an  old  man  lying  on  it.  A  door  leads 
into  cottage.  A  gate  in  fence  on  the  right  side  leads  to  the  road 
and  village  beyond.  All  of  the  left  side  of  stage  a  garden  and 
orchard,  with  a  path  through  it  to  a  gate  in  wall  at  back;  garden 
wall  to  left,  at  back  over  it  village  chapel  from  which  the  church 
music  comes. 

A  thatched  cottage  with  whitewashed  walls.  Ivy  is  growing 
about  the  doorway,  and  hanging  from  the  thatch  above  the  door; 
fuchsia  bushes  on  either  side  of  door;  trees  to  the  left  in  garden, 
including  holly  and  yew;  green  grass;  mountains  beyond  cot 
tage  and  garden  and  chapel.  In  the  foreground,  to  right  by 
cottage  door,  is  a  washtub. 

It  is  about  six  o'clock,  the  first  Monday  in  April.     Towards 
end  of  act  the  sun  sets. 

At  rise  of  curtain,  windows  of  the  cottage  closed,  and  Annie, 
old,  very  plump,  with  sparse  gray  hair  escaping  from  under  her 
white  cap  and  damp  on  her  forehead  from  work,  and  wearing  a 
short  skirt,  apron,  fichu  over  shoulders,  clogs  on  her  feet,  is 
washing.     Church  music  off  left  continues  a  minute  after  rise 
of  curtain.     David  calls  out.     Annie  leaves  the  tub  and  hurries 
to  the  windows  to  open  them  from  the  outside.     David,  a  very 
old  man,  with  white  hair  and  thin  face,  is  seen  lying  in  bed, 
DAVID  (calling).     Annie,  Annie! 
ANNIE  (opening  windows}.     Aye,  lad  dear,  I  was  listenin'  for 

ye ;  yiss,  yiss,  an*  expectin'  ye  to  call. 

DAVID  (sleepily).     I  was  dreamin'  an*  —  dear,  dear,  what  a 
dream!     It  seemed  like  fifty  years  ago  when  we  were 


66      THE  MERRY  MERRY  CUCKOO 

married,  an',  you  remember,  we  stood  out  there  in  the 

garden  that  first  night.     Are  there  any  violets  bloomin' 

yet? 

ANNIE.     Not  yet,  Davy  lad. 
DAVID.     An*  the  marsh  marigolds  ? 
ANNIE.     I'm  thinkin'  they're  sure  to  be  out. 
DAVID.     An'  that  same  night,  Annie,  do  ye  remember  we 

heard  the  cuckoo  singin'  ? 
ANNIE.     Aye,  lad  darlin',  fifty  years  ago  this  comin'  week, 

an'  a  cuckoo  singin'  to  us  every  spring  since  then.     (Annie 

takes  a  tumbler  from  the  sill  and  gives  him  a  spoonful  of 

medicine)     Take  this,  dear;    there,   'twill  be  makin'  ye 

better. 

DAVID  (taking  medicine).     An*  well? 
ANNIE.     Yiss,  yiss,  better. 

DAVID.     But  the  cuckoo,  will  the  cuckoo  be  singin'  soon  ? 
ANNIE  (words  inconclusive).     Lad,  dear,  no  more,  or  ye'll  be 

havin'  an  attack  an'  —  Dear  people,  chapel  is  out,  an'  I 

hear  them  on  the  road ! 
DAVID  (plaintively).     The  Monday  meetin'.     Why  have  ye 

not  been  ? 

ANNIE.     Work  is  keepin'  me  home,  lad. 
DAVID.     But,  Annie,  ye've  not  said  a  word  of  the  cuckoo. 
ANNIE  (sending  her  voice  up  as  cheerfully  as  she  can).     Aye, 

the  cuckoo ;   yiss,  the  cuckoo  — 
DAVID  (clasping  and  unclasping  his  hands).     Has  it  come? 

Did  ye  hear  it  ? 
ANNIE  (gulping).     David,  dear,  if  ye'd  but  listen  to  what  I 

was  a-goin'  to  say.     I  was  a-goin'  to  say  that  I've  not 

heard  the  cuckoo  yet,  but  that  everthin's  over-early  this 

spring  in  Wales,  an'  I'm  expectin'  to  hear  one  any  time 

now.     'Tis  so  warm  there  might  be  one  singin'  at  dusk 

to-day  —  there  might  be  ! 
DAVID  (brightening) .     Might  there  be,  Annie  ? 
ANNIE  (smoothing  his  head  with  her  hand).     Aye,  lad.     Hush. 

lad,  they're  singin'  in  the  chapel ! 

[She  stands  there  with  one  hand  resting  on  his  forehead,  listen- 


THE  MERRY  MERRY  CUCKOO      67 

ing  to  the  singing  of  Penlan,  a  hymn  by  David  Jenkins. 
When  the  music  stops,  she  moves  away. 

DAVID.     'Tis  over-early,  an',  Annie  — 

ANNIE.  Davy  dear,  be  still !  Pastor  Morris  says  —  Tut, 
tut,  I'll  close  the  window,  for  there  comes  that  Lowry 
Prichard  and  her  man. 

[Annie  closes  windows  hastily  and  goes  back  to  her  washing. 
Enter  from,  right  Lowry  and  her  husband  Guto,  coming  from 
the  Monday  prayer  meeting  and  carrying  hymnals.  Lowry 
dressed  in  Welsh  costume,  clogs,  short  full  skirt,  striped  apron, 
white  sleeves  from  elbow  to  wrist,  tight  bodice,  shawl  over  her 
shoulders,  white  cap,  and  tall,  Welsh  beaver  hat.  Guto,  Welsh 
beaver  hat  on  like  his  wife's,  striped  vest,  brass  buttons  on  lapels 
of  black  cloth  coat,  long,  somewhat  tight  trousers.  At  sight 
of  washtub  and  Annie  busy  over  it,  Lowry  and  Guto  make 
gestures  of  shocked  dismay  to  each  other. 

LOWRY.     Good  evenin',  Annie  Dalben. 

ANNIE  (wiping  her  wet  hand  on  her  apron).  Good  evenin', 
Lowry  Prichard,  an'  to  you,  Guto. 

GUTO.     Good  evenin',  mum. 

LOWRY.     How  is  your  man  ? 

ANNIE.     He's  no  better. 

LOWRY.     Is  he  worse  ? 

ANNIE.     Nay. 

LOWKY.     We  missed  ye,  Annie  Dalben. 

GUTO.     Aye,  we  did.     Why  were  ye  not  at  meetin'? 

ANNIE.     I've  my  man  to  mind  these  days. 

LOWRY  (triumphantly).  But  ye  said  he  was  no  worse,  ye 
did. 

ANNIE.     Aye,  I  did,  but  I  cannot  leave  him  alone. 

GUTO.     But  ye're  neglectin'  chapel  an'  forgettin'  the  Lord 
Annie    Dalben.     Ye'll    go    quite    on   the    downfall,    like 
this. 

LOWRY.  Aye,  ye've  not  been  to  meetin's,  an'  'tis  bad  when 
he's  dyin'  for  ye  to  forget  your  Lord.  Is  he  in  there  ? 

ANNIE  (moving  protectingly  nearer  the  closed  window).     Yiss, 

LOWRY.     WThy  were  ye  washin*  ? 


68      THE  MERRY  MERRY  CUCKOO 

ANNIE.  Ye've  no  cause  to  ask  that  —  ye  know.  Except  I 
did  the  washin',  what  would  there  be  for  me  to  care  for 
David  with  —  now  that  he  needs  me  ? 

GUTO.     Yiss,  but  ye  could  do  it  on  some  other  day. 

ANNIE.  Nay,  for  the  ladies  are  waitin'  now  for  what  they've 
given  me  to  do  —  an'  they  so  kind. 

LOWBY.     I  see  Pastor  Morris  comin'  in. 

ANNIE.     Aye,  he's  comin'  every  day  an'  some  days  bringin' 
me  the  food  from  his  own  table  for  my  man. 
[Enter  Pastor  Morris,  young.,  earnest  and  rather  severe  be 
cause  of  his  youth. 

LOWRY  (the  inquisitional  look  on  her  face  deepening,  and  her 
voice  growing  more  shrill,  pointing  to  Annie).  Ye  see,  sir, 
what  Annie  Dalben's  been  doin'  while  we  were  in  meetin'. 
She's  needin'  a  sermon,  aye,  that  she  is. 

GUTO.     She's  goin'  quite  on  the  downfall,  sir. 

ANNIE.  Lowry  Prichard,  ye've  no  cause  to  speak  so  about 
me.  When  was  I  ever  absent  when  my  man  was  well? 
But  now,  sir,  (turning  to  Morris)  as  ye  know,  he's  ill  an' 
needin'  me  an'  all  the  s'illin's  I  can  earn.  I  cannot  go 
away  from  him. 

LOWRY  (speaking  to  Pastor  Morris).  She's  needin'  your  ad 
vice,  sir.  Tis  that  she  is  needin'  whatever.  Warn  her  well. 

GUTO.     Yiss,  an'  rebuke  her. 

LOWRY.  Ye're  young,  sir,  but  ye're  the  instrument  of  the 
Lord  whatever.  'Tis  your  duty  to  bring  her  back  to  her 
conscience. 

GUTO.     Amen. 

[Lowry  and  Guto  go  off  very  self-righteous  and  looking  tri 
umphantly  at  Annie,  who,  quiet,  her  face  pale  and  weary, 
turns  to  her  washing  and  rubs  and  rinses  diligently,  while  the 
minister  is  talking. 

MORRIS  (gently).  I've  been  troubled,  for  I  knew  that  it 
would  come  to  this,  Annie.  I  should  have  spoken  with 
you  before  about  going  to  chapel.  Some  one  could  be 
found  to  stay  with  David  while  you  were  at  meeting. 
You  have  not  been  to  chapel  for  a  month,  Annie. 


THE  MERRY  MERRY  CUCKOO      69 

ANNIE  (continuing  her  work,  but  in  her  voice  the  attitude  of  the 
older  woman  towards  the  young  man).  Ye're  very  kind, 
sir,  to  take  the  interest,  but  I'm  thinkin'  ye  cannot  under 
stand.  There's  been  no  occasion,  sir,  for  ye  to  understand 
through  what  I've  been  goin'  these  days. 
[She  rubs  her  sleeve  across  her  tear-filled  eyes  and  continues 
washing  sturdily. 

MORRIS.  Yes,  but,  Annie,  what  is  David  thinking?  Does 
he  want  you  to  stay  away  from  the  meetings  where  you 
have  always  been  together  ? 

ANNIE.     Nay,  sir. 

MORRIS.     Has  he  spoken  of  your  staying  away  ? 

ANNIE  (reluctantly).  Aye,  sir,  he  asked  this  evenin'  why  I 
was  not  in  meetin'. 

MORRIS  (reflectively).     He  did.     Well,  I  am  thinking  that — 

ANNIE  (dropping  her  work  and  speaking  as  if  worried) .  Nay, 
sir,  I've  no  cause  to  excuse  myself  to  ye  —  ye're  naught 
but  a  lad.  'Tis  past  your  knowledge  how  my  man  is 
every  thin'  to  me  —  every  thin',  he  is.  He's  been  such  a 
husband  as  no  one  but  myself  can  know,  thinkin'  of  me  all 
the  time,  livin'  for  me,  as  gentle  an'  tender  to  me  as  if  I 
had  been  a  child,  an'  now,  sir,  he's  ill  —  he  may  be  dyin*> 
an'  I  can  think  of  nothin'  but  doin'  everythin'  for  — 
(David  taps  on  window  and  Annie  turns  to  open  it)  Aye, 
lad  dear.  'Tis  the  Pastor  comin'  to  see  ye  again. 

DAVID  (smiling  and  holding  out  one  weak  old  hand).  Good 
evenin ',  sir,  such  a  grand  day,  with  spring  everywhere. 
We've  been  expectin'  the  cuckoo,  sir  —  the  wife  and  I. 
Have  ye  heard  the  cuckoo,  yet,  Annie? 

MORRIS  (starting  to  speak) .     'Twill  be  a  fortnight  be  - 

ANNIE  (interrupting  hurriedly).  Nay,  lad  dear,  I've  been 
busy,  but  I'm  thinkin'  JVn  likely  to  hear  it  now  any  mo 
ment  —  aye,  any  moment. 

MORRIS.     But,  Annie,  the  cuckoo  doesn't  — 

ANNIE.  Tut,  sir,  I  could  almost  promise  the  cuckoo  would 
be  singin'  at  sundown  whatever  —  aye,  indeed,  lad  darlin'. 
Now  I'll  — 


70      THE  MERRY  MERRY  CUCKOO 

DAVID  (interrupting).  Annie,  ye  mind  that  baby  cuckoo  we 
saw  the  sky-lark  a-feedin'  that  first  spring  in  Blaen  Cwm  ? 
It  all  comes  back  so  clear  now  an*  clearer  every  moment. 
I'd  not  once  thought  of  it,  sir,  since  then. 

MORRIS.     But,  David,  the  — 

ANNIE  (speaking  to  David  and  closing  the  windows) .     Lie  down, 
lad  darlin',  an'  be  quiet.     I'll  call  ye,  if  the  cuckoo  sings. 
[In  the  distance  the  choir  can  be  heard  practising  Cariad>  a 
revival  hymn,  in  the  chapel.     Continues  until  Annie  is  alone 
and  talking  to  herself. 

MORRIS  (severely).  But,  Annie,  you  know  the  cuckoo  will 
not  sing  at  least  for  another  fortnight.  It  is  mid-April 
before  the  cuckoo  sings. 

ANNIE  (wearily).     Aye,  sir. 

MORRIS.     Why  did  you  say  that  to  David  ? 

ANNIE.  He's  achin',  sir,  to  hear  the  cuckoo  sing,  an*  I'm 
wantin'  to  comfort  him. 

MORRIS.  But,  Annie,  it  is  a  lie  to  say  what  you  did  to 
him. 

ANNIE  (vigorously).     Aye,  sir,  but  I'm  not  carin'  whatever. 

MORRIS  (severely) .     Not  caring  about  telling  a  lie  ? 

ANNIE.  Nay,  sir,  I'm  not  carin'  about  anythin'  but  makin' 
him  happy. 

MORRIS  (rebukingly) .  Annie  !  (Annie  continues  washing  and 
does  not  reply)  Annie !  Well,  indeed,  Annie,  if  there  is 
nothing  I  can  do  for  you,  and  you  will  not  listen  to  me,  I 
must  be  going  to  choir  practice.  I  promised  to  be  there 
this  evening. 

ANNIE  (without  turning  from  the  tub).  Aye,  sir.  (Pastor 
Morris  off  through  garden  path  to  choir  practice.  Goes  to 
left.  Annie  continues  washing  until  he  is  well  out  of  sight. 
She  stands  up  straight  and  looks  about  the  garden)  He's 
wantin'  to  hear  the  cuckoo  more  nor  anythin'  else,  dear, 
dear !  Everywhere  'tis  green  now,  an'  the  lilies  will  be 
here  before  long  —  but  lad,  lad,  the  cuckoo,  will  it  come  ? 
(She  goes  to  left  into  garden,  the  wet  clothes  in  a  basket  under 
her  arm  and  stands  there,  looking  about)  'Twas  over  there 


THE  MERRY  MERRY  CUCKOO      71 

it  laid  its  egg  in  the  robin's  nest  this  year  ago  in  May  - 
aye,  an*  one  poor  little  bird  pushed  the  other  out,  an'  ye 
picked  it  up,  lad  dear,  an'  were  so  tender  with  it.  An* 
they're  not  wantin'  ye,  Davy,  my  old  lad  darlin',  to  think 
the  cuckoo  will  be  singin'  soon.  Dear  God,  is  there  to  be 
no  cuckoo  singin'  for  the  lad  again?  Just  once  more, 
dear  God,  to  sing  to  him  and  comfort  him  ?  Aye !  just 
the  one  song  ?  No  cuckoo  ?  Aye,  there  will  be  a  cuckoo 
singin',  there  shall  be  a  cuckoo  singin' !  (She  looks  towards 
the  closed  windows  behind  which  David  lies,  and  puts  down 
her  basket  of  clothes}  He's  asleep!  Hush,  I'll  be  the 
cuckoo  !  He'll  wake  an'  think  the  spring  has  really  come. 
Here  by  this  tree.  They're  in  the  chapel,  an'  they'll  never 
know.  (Throughout  this  scene,  until  Lowry  speaks,  a  cuckoo 
song  is  being  played  very  softly.  And  it  is  into  a  few  notes 
of  this,  several  times  repeated,  that  Annie  swings  when  she 
actually  sings  her  cuckoo  song.  She  opens  her  mouth  to  be 
gin,  a  look  of  appealing  misery  on  her  face)  'Twas  some- 
thin'  like  this  :  Coo-o.  Coo-o !  Tut,  that  sounds  like  a 
hen.  I  know,  it  goes  over  an'  over  again,  sing-song, 
sing-song,  like  this :  cu-cu,  cu-cu.  Aye,  that's  better. 
(She  rocks  herself  backwards  and  forwards  practising  it  and 
repeating  cu-cu,  cu-cu)  'Tis  growin'  better,  but  lad,  lad, 
I'm  plannin'  to  deceive  ye  whatever  !  (Brushes  tears  away 
impatiently  and  begins  song  again)  Cucu-cu,  cucu-cu, 
cucucu-cu,  cu !  Aye,  that's  fair ;  aye,  'tis  fine  !  He'll  not 
know  me  from  a  real  cuckoo.  I'll  try  it  loud  now,  for 
ye've  no  long,  dearie. 

[She  holds  eagerly  on  to  tree  beside  her,  so  lost  in  the  cuckoo 
music  that  she  is  not  aware  of  a  head  popping  up  behind  the 
garden  wall  and  down  again.  She  draws  a  long  breath  and 
begins,  softly,  slowly,  the  song  sounding  as  if  it  came  from  a 
distance.  She  waits  a  moment,  —  the  heads  are  well  above  the 
wall  now  in  amazement,  —  and  then  sings  more  loudly, 
making  the  song  sound  as  if  it  came  from  the  garden  where  she 
is  standing. 
DAVID  (calling) .  Annie  ! 


72      THE  MERRY  MERRY  CUCKOO 

ANNIE  (hurrying  to  open  his  windows).     Aye,  lad  dear,  I'm 

comin'. 

DAVID  (ecstatically).  Annie,  Annie,  dear,  I  heard  the  cuckoo 
singin' ;  I  was  dreamin'  again,  an*  all  at  once  I  heard  the 
cuckoo  singin'  in  the  garden,  loud  and  clear.  It  sang  three 
times ;  first,  it  sounded  like  somethin'  else,  'twas  so  breath 
less  ;  then  it  sang  quiet  an*  sweet  like  a  cuckoo ;  an'  the 
third  time  it  seemed  comin'  from  the  old  mill  wheel. 
ANNIE.  But,  lad  darlin',  ye've  heard  it,  an*  I'm  that  glad ! 

Three  times;    yiss,  yiss,  'tis  a  real  fine  cuckoo.     Now 

ye're  happy,  darlin',  an'  ye'll  sleep  well  upon  it. 
DAVID  (disappointedly) .     Did  ye  no  hear  it  ? 
ANNIE.     I'm  thinkin'  I  did  an'  thinkin'  I  didn't. 
DAVID.     Where  were  ye  ? 

ANNIE.     Out  in  the  garden,  hangin'  out  the  clothes. 
DAVID  (still  more  disappointedly).     An'  ye  didn't  hear  it? 
ANNIE.     I'm  no   certain,   darlin' ;    I   heard   somethin'  —  I 

did,  indeed. 
DAVID    (proudly).     'Twas    the    cuckoo,    Annie    dear;     I'm 

hearin'  it  first  every  year ;  ye  must  be  growin'  deaf. 
ANNIE.     Yiss,  yiss.     Now  go  to  sleep,  an'  I'll  call  ye  if  I 

hear  the  cuckoo  sing. 
DAVID.     Will  it  sing  again? 

ANNIE.     Aye,  darlin',  if  ye  heard  it  once,  'tis  sure  to  sing  again. 
DAVID.     I'll  be  gettin'  well,  Annie,  is  it  not  so  ? 
ANNIE  (turning  away  suddenly).     Indeed,  lad  dear,  ye'll  be 

about  among  the  heather  'fore  long. 
DAVID   (speaking  quietly,   almost  to  himself).     To  think  the 

cuckoo's  singin'  —  singin'  for  me  ! 
ANNIE.     Aye,  aye ;   now  go  to  sleep. 

[He  lies  back  and  closes  his  eyes  obediently.     Annie,  drying 

her  eyes  on  her  apron,  goes  to  left  towards  her  basket  of  clothes. 

She  stands  by  the  tree  where  she  had  sung  the  cuckoo  song  for 

David,  unconscious  that  two  people  are  head  and  shoulders 

above  the  garden  wall,  looking  at  her. 
LOWKY  (in  a  loud  voice).     So  ye've  come  back,  Annie  Dalben, 

to  sing  the  cuckoo  again. 


,THE  MERRY  MERRY  CUCKOO  73 

GUTO.     Aye,  we  heard  ye  singin'  the  cuckoo. 

LOWRY.     Pooh,  'tis  a  pretty  cuckoo  ye  make,  an  old  woman 

like  you,  an*  a  pretty  song ! 
ANNIE.     Lowry  Prichard,  have  a  care ! 
GUTO.     'Tis  over-early  for  the  cuckoo,  is  it  not? 

ANNIE.       Y'lSS. 

GUTO.     An'  what  are  ye  singin'  in  your  garden  for,  an* 

David  dyin'  ? 

[Annie  does  not  reply  but  stoops  to  her  basket  of  clothes  and 

begins  to  hang  them  out. 
LOWRY.     So  ye'll  give  no  answer  ?     Well,  indeed,  maybe  ye'll 

answer  Pastor  Morris.     Aye,  Guto,  go  fetch  the  Pastor. 

[Guto  goes  off  to  left,  through  garden  gate  in  garden  wall. 
LOWRY  (going  towards  the  windows  behind  which  David  lies). 

'Tis  a  godly  song  ye've  sung,  Annie,  an'  a  tale  for  the 

chapel,  eh? 
ANNIE  (following  and  stepping  in  front  of  Lowry) .     Ye  may  go 

out  of  this  garden,  an'  that  this  minute  ! 
LOWRY  (making  her  way  nearer  and  nearer  the  window).     Nay, 

nay,  I'm  a-goin'  to  speak  with  David  an'  tell  him  he's  a 

cuckoo  for  a  wife.     Tut,  ye  look  fair  crazy,  Annie,  crazy 

with  wrath !     Your  hair  is  all  rumpled,  an'  your  smock  is 

dirty.     David,  bein'  a  cuckoo  is  — 

[But  the  taunt  is  left  unfinished,  for  at  that  moment  young 

Morris  comes  in  hastily,  Guto  following. 
MORRIS   (authoritatively).     Annie!  Lowry!  Annie,   is   this   I 

hear  true?     Have  you  been  imitating  the  cuckoo? 
ANNIE.     Aye,  sir. 
MORRIS  (turning  to  Lowry  and  Guto).     You  may  go.     Leave 

this  to  me. 

[Guto  and  Lowry  go  off  right,  through  front  gate,  staring  in 

at  David  as  they  pass. 
MORRIS    (sternly).     So,   Annie,   you  have  been   acting  the 

cuckoo  —  acting  a  lie.     With  this  lie  upon  you,  how  will 

it  be  with  salvation  ? 

ANNIE  (hotly).     Salvation,  sir?     I've  no  mind  to  your  sal 
vation  ;  no,  nor  to  heaven's,  if  the  Lord  makes  this  singin' 


74      THE  MERRY  MERRY  CUCKOO 

a  lie!  I'm  thinkin'  of  David  as  I've  thought  of  him 
these  fifty  years,  years  before  ye  were  born,  sir,  an'  if  a 
lie  will  make  him  happy  when  he's  dyin',  then  I'm  willin' 
to  lie,  an'  do  it  every  minute  of  the  day. 

MORRIS.     That  means  you  are  willing  to  sin  ? 

ANNIE.     Aye,  sir,  to  sin.     I'm  a  willin'  sinner ! 

MORRIS  (more  gently).     You  are  overwrought,  Annie. 

ANNIE  (wearily).     Ye 're  all  against  me,  sir. 

MORRIS.  Nay,  nay,  but  wouldn't  it  be  better  if  I  were  to 
tell  David  about  the  cuckoo  ? 

ANNIE  (sobbing) .     Oh,  no,  no,  no,  sir !     Not  that ! 

MORRIS  (stretching  out  his  hand  to  comfort  her).  Annie,  there, 
there,  you  mustn't  cry  so. 

ANNIE.  'Tis  all  the  happiness  he's  got,  an'  he's  goin'.  Oh, 
my  lad,  my  lad ! 

MORRIS.     There,  there,  Annie ! 

ANNIE.  We've  been  married  fifty  years  this  spring,  an' 
every  spring  we've  listened  for  the  cuckoo  an'  not  one 
missed.  An'  now  he's  a-dyin'  an'  a-wantin'  to  hear  it  so, 
an'  'twas  over-early,  an*  then  I  thought  of  bein'  the  cuckoo 
myself.  Oh,  Davy,  Davy  darlin' ! 

MORRIS  (altogether  forgetting  his  pastoral  severity).  There, 
Annie,  there,  dear,  tell  me  about  it !  We'll  see,  Annie. 

ANNIE.  There's  no  more.  Only  he  kept  askin'  about  the 
spring,  the  violets  an'  marsh  marigolds,  an'  I  knew  all  the 
time  he  was  thinkin'  of  the  cuckoo  an'  not  askin'  because 
he  was  goin'  an'  mightn't  hear  it.  An'  then  he  did.  An' 
I  said  I  thought  he'd  hear  one  this  evenin',  that  everythin' 
was  over-early  whatever.  After  that  he  seemed  happier 
than  I'd  seen  him,  an*  I  closed  his  windows  an'  went  off 
into  the  garden  to  practise  it.  I  worked  at  it  till  I  could 
do  it  fair.  Oh,  Davy,  Davy  lad ! 

MORRIS.     Now,  Annie  dear,  don't  cry,  just  tell  me  more. 

ANNIE.  Then,  sir,  I  sang  the  song  here  by  this  tree,  an' 
when  he  called  me  to  him,  there  was  such  a  look  of  joy  on 
his  face  as  has  not  been  there  this  long  time.  'Tis  the 
last  happiness  I  can  give  him,  sir. 


THE  MERRY  MERRY  CUCKOO      75 

DAVID  (calling).     Annie,  Annie! 

ANNIE.     He's  callin'.     Aye,  lad  dear,  I'm  comin'. 

[She  goes  into  cottage  and,  after  opening  all  the  windows, 

stands  by  the  foot  of  David's  bed. 
DAVID.     Have  ye  heard  the  cuckoo  singin'  ? 
ANNIE.     No,  not  yet.     It  must  be  singin'  again  soon. 
DAVID  (anxiously).     Ye're  sure  'tis  goin'  to  sing? 
ANNIE  (gathering  him  up  and  turning  his  pillow).     Indeed, 

yiss,  an'  with  the  windows  all  open,  ye'll  be  hearin'  it  fine 

an*  clear,  ye  will.     I'll  go  back  up  into  the  garden  to  see 

is  the  cuckoo  there. 
DAVID.     Will  it  be  singin'  over  an'  over  again,  the  way  it 

did  that  first  time  ? 
ANNIE.     Aye,  I'm  thinkin'  so,  lad  darlin'.     Ye  must  listen 

quietly. 
DAVID.     'Twas  so  beautiful  singin'.      I'd  like  hearin'  it  with 

ye  here  beside  me. 

ANNIE  (kissing  him).     I'll  come  back,  lad. 
DAVID.     Aye,  I'll  be  waitin'  for  ye. 

[Annie  goes  out  of  the  cottage  door  and  back  into  garden  where 

Pastor  Morris  is  standing,  his  hat  off,  while  Annie  and  Darid 

are  talking  together.     He  can  see  them  both,  but  David  cannot 

see   him.     Annie  and  Morris  converse   in   whispers.      The 

cuckoo  song  begins  to  be  played  softly. 
MORRIS.     Is  he  worse  ? 
ANNIE  (looking  at  Morris  beseechingly).     I  cannot  tell,  sir, 

but  he's  longin'  to  hear  the  cuckoo  sing  again. 
MORRIS.     I  see,  and  you  are  wishing  to  do  it  again  ? 
ANNIE.     Yiss,  an*  with  the  lad  dyin',  can  ye  tell  me  not  to 

do  what  Davy  is  askin'  for  ?     Each  time  might  be  his  last, 

sir. 
MORRIS  (after  a  moment's  hesitation).     Nay,  go  sing  for  him. 

I   will  stand  guard  for  you,  and  no  one  shall  disturb 

you. 
ANNIE  (a  deep  sigh  of  relief).     Oh,  sir,  thank  you  !     Tis  sure 

to  be  a  comfort.     But  ye're  harmin'  your  conscience  for 

me,  sir,  are  ye  ? 


76      THE  MERRY  MERRY  CUCKOO 

MORRIS  (humbly).     I'm  not  saying,  Annie;  I'm  over-young 
to  have  a  conscience  in  some  things. 

ANNIE  (taking  his  hand  to  kiss  it).     May  God  bless  ye,  sir, 
for  bein'  kind  to  an  old  woman  !  [ 

[The  sun  has  set  behind  the  chapel,  and  it  is  rapidly  growing 
dark  as  the  music  grows  louder.  Morris  steps  back  to  the 
garden  gate  to  keep  watch.  Annie  stands  by  the  tree  and, 
dropping  her  hands  by  her  side,  lifting  her  head,  and  swaying 
her  old  body  to  and  fro,  sings  the  cuckoo  song  over  and  over 
again  three  times.  David  has  risen  in  bed,  an  expression  of 
rapturous  delight  upon  his  face  as  he  leans  against  the  casement 
listening.  The  lights  are  being  lighted  in  the  chapel,  and  the 
chapel  bell  begins  to  ring. 

DAVID  (calling  faintly) .     Annie,  Annie  darlin',  come  quickly, 
the  cuckoo's  singin' ! 

ANNIE  (hastening  towards  him).     Yiss,  lad,  I'm  comin*. 

DAVID  (stretching  out  his  hands  towards  her).     Annie,  sweet 
heart,  did  ye  hear  the  cuckoo  singin'  ? 

ANNIE.     Yiss,  dearie,  loud  and  clear. 

DAVID  (trying  to  imitate  its  song  while  his  voice  grows  fainter) . 
It  sang  over  an'  over  like  this  — 

ANNIE  (within  the  cottage  and  beside  David).     Yiss,  dear,  I  see. 

DAVID    (sinking    back   into   her    arms) .     An*  —  it  —  was  — 
quiet  —  but  —  Annie  — 

ANNIE  (holding  him  to  her  and  crying  out).     Lad,  lad  dear. 
Davy,  can  ye  not  speak  to  me  ? 

[The  bell  for  chapel  stops  ringing.  The  organ  playing 
"Jesus,  Lover  of  my  Soul"  is  heard.  Morris  is  standing  by 
the  gate,  facing  towards  the  old  people,  his  hat  off,  his  head 

bowed. 

CURTAIN 


SINTRAM  OF  SKAGERRAK 

SADA  COWAN 

• 

Miss  SADA  COWAN  (in  private  life,  Mrs.  Fredrick  James 
Pitt)  was  educated  at  a  private  boarding  school  near  Boston. 
At  the  age  of  fifteen  she  went  to  Germany  to  study  music. 
She  found,  however,  that  this  work  did  not  entirely  satisfy 
her  and  so  she  began  a  series  of  travels  which  extended 
over  a  number  of  years. 

"Sintram  of  Skagerrak"  was  written  in  Frankfort,  Ger 
many,  late  one  evening,  as  the  result  of  the  inspiration  which 
Frederick  Lamond  aroused  through  his  piano  recital  of 
Chopin.  The  play  itself  was  written  in  less  than  two  hours 
and  has  never  been  altered  by  the  addition  or  the  elimination 
of  a  word. 

Miss  Cowan  has  published  "In  the  Morgue",  "The  State 
Forbids",  and  "Investigation."  In  addition  to  these,  she 
has  produced  "Playing  the  Game",  "Pomp",  "The  Wonder 
of  the  Age",  "The  Moonlit  Way",  "Abdul  the  Azra", 
"The  Honor  of  America",  and  "I  Wish  I  Knew." 


SINTRAM  OF  SKAGERRAK 


BY  SADA  COWAN 


"Sintram  of  Skagerrak"  was  originally  produced  by  the 
Brooklyn  Repertory  Theatre,  April  27,  1917. 

Original  Cast 

SINTRAM Harmon  Cheshire 

GUNHILDE  Ethel  Rosemon 


COPYRIGHT,  BY  SADA  COWAN. 
All  rights  reserved. 

Application  for  the  right  of  performing  "Sintram  of  Skagerrak"  must  be  made  to 
Sada  Cowan,  The  Authors'  League,  New  York  City. 


SINTRAM  OF  SKAGERRAK 

SCENE.  A  high,  bare  cliff,  situated  on  the  edge  of  the  shore,  in 
a  bleak,  barren  country.  Against  this  cliff  the  breakers  dash 
unceasingly,  splitting  with  a  roar  and  thud;  tossing  their  spray 
high  into  the  air. 

It  is  a  moonlight  night  in  summer. 

On  the  peak  of  the  cliff,  and  looking  out  upon  the  ocean,  stands 
Sintram,  an  emaciated,  frail,  sickly  lad  of  about  twenty.  As 
the  curtains  part,  he  stretches  his  arms  out  impetuously  towards 
the  sea,  uttering  a  prolonged  "Ah  ...  h  ...  h!"  then  lets 
them  fall  languidly  to  his  side  and  hangs  his  head,  as  though 
weary  of  his  whole  existence.  He  continues  to  stand,  apathetic 
and  listless,  for  several  moments,  gazing  spellbound  upon  the 
ocean.  Unobserved  by  him  across  the  rocks,  Gunhilde  enters: 
a  vivacious  girl  of  eighteen,  plainly  dressed  as  befits  her  lowly  sta 
tion.  She  looks  about  and  behind  her  as  if  afraid  of  being  fol 
lowed,  then,  a  rock  hiding  Sintram  from  her  view,  calls  softly. 
GUNHILDE.  Sintram  .  .  . !  Sintram  .  .  .  !  (Sintram,  lost  in 
his  morose  brooding,  does  not  hear  her,  but  continues  to  stand 
staring  at  the  ocean)  Sintram  .  .  .  !  Sintram  .  .  .  !  Ah, 
the^e  you  are.  I  hoped  that  I  should  find  you. 

[Sintram  turns  slowly  and  descends  the  cliff  with  tired,  dragging 

step;   she  runs  eagerly  towards  him. 
SINTRAM  (angrily).     What  are  you  doing  here,  Gunhilde,  at 

this  hour? 
GUNHILDE.     Sh  .  .  .  h  .  .  .  h  .  .  . !    Not  so  loud  !    Someone 

will  hear  you. 
SINTRAM.     What  are  you  doing  here  !     Have  I  not  forbidden 

your  creeping  out  of  your  house,  like  a  thief  in  the  night, 

to  look  for  me ! 


82  SINTRAM  OF  SKAGERRAK 

GUNHILDE.     Be  kind  ...  be  gentle,  Sintram. 

SINTRAM  (sternly) .  Your  Father  thinks  you  at  home.  Why 
do  you  deceive  him  ?  Go  home !  (She  does  not  move. 
Kindly)  Go,  little  friend,  little  playmate !  You  know  it 
is  for  your  good  I  would  have  you  go  ...  go  home ! 

GUNHILDE.       No. 

SINTRAM.  We  have  said  all  that  we  had  to  say  to  each  other. 
Why  have  you  come  back  again  ? 

GUNHILDE.     I  had  to  see  you  once  more  Sintram  before  .  .  . 
(her  voice  breaks)  .  .  .  before  they  take  you  away.     I  shall 
be  at  work  in  the  morning  when  they  come  for  you. 
[She  covers  her  face  with  her  hands  and  begins  to  sob. 

SINTRAM  (furiously) .  Stop  that  senseless  crying !  Leave  me 
alone.  Do  you  think  that  my  soul  is  not  racked  enough  ? 
(Sadly)  All  night  I  have  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  cliff  saying 
"Good-by"  to  the  sea.  We  understand  each  other,  the 
mad,  wild,  restless  ocean  and  I.  And  all  night  she  has 
wept  for  me  .  .  .  wept  in  her  anguish.  (Pushing  Gunhilde 
aside)  I  have  no  need  of  woman's  tears. 

GUNHILDE  (awed) .  Often  it  seems  to  me,  Sintram,  as  though 
there  were  something  uncanny  about  you.  As  though  you 
lived  on  this  earth  among  us,  without  really  being  one  of 
us.  When  you  have  taken  me  in  your  arms  and  have 
kissed  me  tenderly  .  .  .  (bitterly)  just  as  if  I  were  a  little 
child,  I  have  felt  that  worlds  and  worlds  lay  between  us. 
What  is  it,  Sintram  ?  Have  you  a  secret  which  you  have 
kept  from  me  ?  (He  gives  no  answer,  but  dumbly  nods  his 
head  in  assent)  I  thought  so.  Will  you  not  tell  it  to  me 
before  you  go? 

SINTRAM  (hastily).  No  ...  no  ...  you  could  not  under 
stand. 

GUNHILDE.  Let  me  try  .  .  .  come  .  .  .  tell  me !  (She 
leads  him  to  a  rock  where  they  sit  beside  each  other,  she  still 
holding  his  hand.  He  shivers  nervously  and  coughs)  You 
ought  not  to  be  here  in  the  night  air. 

SINTRAM.  I  am  not  cold  (shivers  again)  but  ....  I  feel  — 
afraid.  Gunhilde,  come  closer  .  .  . 


SINTRAM  OF  SKAGERRAK  83 

GUNHILDE  (moves  nearer  to  him).  Why,  you  are  shivering! 
Here,  let  me  fasten  your  coat,  you  poor  boy. 

SINTRAM  (shaking  her  off  and  turning  on  her  with  sudden,  un 
expected  fury) .  Bah !  Do  you  begin  too  ?  Can  I  not 
have  just  this  one  night  in  peace  ?  Is  it  not  time  enough 
for  me  to  begin  my  life  as  a  puppet  .  .  .  to-morrow  ? 

QUNHILDE  (hurt).     Why,  Sintram  ! 

SINTRAM.  I  mean  what  I  say,  every  word  of  it  and  I  know 
what  I'm  saying.  (She  attempts  to  touch  him)  Leave  me 
alone !  Do  you  hear  ?  Do  not  touch  me.  To-night  is 
mine  .  .  .  MINE !  And  if  the  night  air  kills  me  ... 
let  it  kill.  But  just  this  once  I  am  going  to  forget  that  I 
am  nothing  but  the  shadow  of  a  man,  sick  and  miserable, 
cheated  by  nature  of  all  that  a  man  should  have ;  blind 
folded  and  handicapped  in  Life's  race  .  .  .  even  before  I 
entered  it.  Beaten  before  the  first  step  was  taken !  But 
to-night  I  am  a  man  !  To-morrow  I  will  be  the  half -dead 
invalid  dragged,  against  my  will,  to  warmer  climes,  where 
my  soul  will  sicken  .  .  .  (harshly)  that  my  body  may  live. 

GUNHILDE  (gently).  How  bitterly  you  speak.  It  is  not  for 
long  that  you  are  going. 

SINTRAM.  You  know  that  it  is  forever.  ( Takes  a  deep  breath, 
then  coughs)  That  this  air  ...  cool  and  sharp  .  .  . 
this  air  I  love  is  as  so  much  poison  to  me.  And  you  know 
just  as  well  as  I  do  that  I  will  never  come  back. 

GUNHILDE  (hiding  her  tears  and  trying  to  cheer  him).  But  it 
must  be  wonderful  in  the  warm  sunshine,  among  eternal 
flowers.  Oh,  I  should  love  it  —  I  wish  that  I  too  might 
go.  This  land  is  hateful  to  me.  'Tis  so  cold  and  bleak, 
and  nothing  green  ever  grows.  Nothing  but  seaweed  and 
nasty  slimy  things  from  the  sea.  I  asked  your  guardian  to 
day  to  tell  me  about  the  place  to  which  he  was  taking 
you  and  he  said  that  it  was  like  fairyland  .  .  .  like  Par 
adise  ;  full  of  roses  and  palms  and  .  .  .  Why,  it  must  be 
glorious,  Sintram ! 

SINTRAM.  Things  to  please  a  soft  woman  .  .  .  not  for  a 
man.  (.4  moment's  pause,  them  to  himself)  And  I  must 


84  SINTRAM  OF  SKAGERRAK 

go  away  and  leave  her.  (Covers  his  eyes  with  his  hands  and 
rocks  to  and  fro  with  emotion)  Oh,  God,  that  is  beyond 
my  strength ! 

GUNHILDE.     Her  ?     Whom  do  you  mean  .  .  .  me  ? 

SINTRAM.     That  is  my  secret,  Gunhilde. 

GUNHILDE  (passionately).  Tell  me  .  .  .  you  must  tell 
me. 

SINTRAM.  No  ...  no  ...  you  would  not  understand.  I 
am  afraid  that  you  would  think  me  mad. 

GUNHILDE.     Tell  me. 

SINTRAM.  I  have  kept  it  to  myself  these  three  years.  I  will 
keep  it  to  the  end. 

GUNHILDE.  But  you  can  have  no  secrets  from  me.  You 
should  have  none.  'Tis  breaking  your  oath. 

SINTRAM  (perplexed).     My  oath?     My  oath? 

GUNHILDE.  Why,  do  you  not  recall  the  day  we  stood  here  on 
the  cliff  and  drank  the  red  wine  together  from  your  little 
silver  cup? 

SINTRAM.     Yes. 

GUNHILDE.  And  you  said,  as  you  held  the  cup  up  ...  so  (she 
raises  one  arm  above  her  head,  laughing,  and  looks  towards 
the  sea)  "I  swear  to  you,  little  comrade,  that  as  long  as  I 
live  I  shall  never  withhold  one  thought,  keep  back  one 
single  feeling,  or  shut  out  my  soul  for  one  single  instant 
from  .  .  .  her  whom  I  love !  And  then  you  threw  the 
cup  far  out  into  the  sea.  Do  you  not  remember,  Sin- 
tram? 

SINTRAM.     Yes  .  .  .  yes  ...  I  remember. 

GUNHILDE.  So  you  must  trust  me  and  if  you  have  kept  any 
thing  hidden  from  me  you  must  tell  it  to  me  now. 

SINTRAM.  I  will  tell  it  to  you  Gunhilde  ...  I  will.  (He 
looks  at  her  a  moment  sympathetically  as  though  he  would  like 
to  spare  her  the  pain  of  that  which  he  is  about  to  say)  You 
love  me  ...  do  you  not  ? 

GUNHILDE.     I  adore  you. 

SINTRAM.  You  have  been  a  dear  little  friend,  a  loyal  com 
rade  these  two  years ;  I  shall  miss  you. 


SINTRAM  OF  SKAGERRAK  85 

GUNHILDE.  Oh,  Sintram  .  .  .  !  (With  a  voice  too  old  for  her 
years)  I  wish  that  I  could  have  been  more  to  you  than  I 
have  been. 

SINTRAM.     What  do  you  mean  ? 

GUNHILDE.  Nothing  .  .  .  nothing !  (Hastily  trying  to  hide 
her  emotion)  I  have  no  wish  to  burden  you  with  my  secret. 
Let  me  hear  yours. 

SINTRAM.  Presently.  First  I  want  you  to  tell  me  some 
thing.  You  are  sorry  that  I  have  to  leave  you  .  .  .  are 
you  not? 

GUNHILDE.     How  can  you  ask  ?     You  know  it. 

SINTRAM.  But  you  hope  some  day  to  see  me  again,  or  to 
hear  from  me  at  least,  do  you  not? 

GUNHILDE.     Yes,  soon. 

SINTRAM.  Then  listen  and  see  if  you  can  possibly  feel  as  I 
feel,  for  even  as  you  love  me,  and  more  .  .  .  much  more, 
I  too  love.  (Gunhilde  tightens  her  hold  upon  his  hand  and 
smiles  happily,  thinking  that  he  is  alluding  to  her.  Sadly 
and  slowly)  No  .  .  .  not  you,  little  playmate,  little 
friend ;  but  a  wild,  beautiful  woman  who  sometimes  mocks 
me  and  torments  me,  and  sometimes  caresses  and  quiets 
me.  Her  moods  are  my  moods.  Her  feelings  are  mine. 
When  she  is  angry,  my  soul  responds  and  is  filled  with 
a  vague  restlessness ;  when  she  is  calm,  her  peace  rests 
on  me ;  when  she  is  powerful,  my  poor,  sickly  body  feels 
her  strength ;  and  when  she  is  vindictive,  I  too  cry  for 
human  life  .  .  .  and  blood !  [During  his  entire  speech 
Gunhilde  has  sat  dumbfounded,  now  she  breaks  forth 
passionately. 

GUNHILDE.  You  love  some  one  else !  You  have  deceived 
me,  telling  me  that  you  had  no  mistress ;  you  love  a  cruel, 
bad  woman  .  .  .  Who  is  she  ? 

SINTRAM.  Be  quiet,  Gunhilde,  and  I  will  tell  you  everything. 
Only  be  quiet  .  .  .  you  will  not  be  jealous  when  you  have 
heard  all. 

GUNHILDE  (dreamily).  And  I  thought  that  you  cared  be 
cause  you  were  leaving  me. 


86  SINTRAM  OF  SKAGERRAK 

SINTBAM.  I  do  care  .  .  .  but  listen.  I  want  you  to  under 
stand.  (Calmly)  I  have  always  lived  here,  as  you  know, 
little  comrade.  In  that  old  house,  just  the  other  side  of 
the  cliff,  I  was  born ;  weighed  down  with  riches  and  an 
untarnished  name.  My  people  had  intermarried  closely : 
(bitterly)  no  strong,  vital  peasants'  blood  ran  in  my  veins. 
(Quietly)  My  Mother's  bed-room  faced  the  ocean,  so  the 
first  sound  which  reached  my  ears  when  I  came  to  the  world 
was  .  .  .  the  moan  of  the  sea.  My  Mother  died  when  I 
was  born,  so  the  sea  became  my  Mother  and  sang  her 
lullabys  to  me  until  I  fell  asleep,  stilled  by  her  soft  crooning. 
(Scornfully)  Then  I  grew  up  ...  weak  .  .  .  delicate 
.  .  .  sick  .  .  .  !  The  boys  used  to  ridicule  me  because  I  was 
not  able  to  spring  from  one  rock  to  another,  laughing  and 
shouting  as  they  did.  They  made  fun  of  me  and  then 
went  away,  leaving  me  sitting  (points)  just  there.  Hour 
after  hour  I  would  stay  there  with  tears  in  my  eyes  gazing 
out  at  the  sea.  And  then,  ah  ...  how  grateful  I  was  .  .  . 
she  would  dance  and  prance  and  splash  and  roar  ...  all 
to  please  and  amuse  me;  calling  softly  to  me  not  to  be 
sad !  And  she  would  weave  her  most  beautiful  fairy  tales 
for  me  in  the  loom  of  the  waves.  In  the  ever-changing 
whitecaps  I  saw  all  the  heroes  of  my  boyhood  fancy  pass 
before  me.  So,  as  the  sea  had  once  taken  the  place  of  my 
Mother,  she  became,  in  turn,  my  playmate.  Are  you 
tired  listening,  Gunhilde  ? 

GUNHILDE.     No,  dear,  no.     Go  on  ...    ! 

SINTRAM.  Then  my  boyhood  vanished  and  I  grew  to  be  a 
man :  a  weak,  puny  man,  able  to  dream  dreams  in  the 
moonlight,  to  write  sad  verse,  to  kiss  your  soft  lips  —  and 
there  my  strength  ended.  Often  when  you  had  left  me 
in  the  evening,  my  soul  afire  from  the  moonbeams  and  the 
light  on  the  waves ;  when  my  body  .  .  .  (Breaks  off  sud 
denly,  remembering  that  she  is  little  more  than  a  child) 
What  am  I  saying  to  you  ?  I  forgot,  little  girl,  forgive  me. 
I  am  so  used  to  talking  to  myself,  forgive  me  ...  Gun 
hilde. 


SINTRAM  OF  SKAGERRAK  87 

GUNHILDE.  What  happened  to  you,  Sintram,  when  you 
stayed  alone  in  the  moonlight  after  I  had  gone  ?  Tell  me. 
I  will  understand.  I  am  not  such  a  child  as  you  think. 

SINTRAM  (reflects,  then  almost  spontaneously}.  I  used  to  sit 
on  the  edge  of  the  peak,  just  where  you  found  me  to-night, 
and  listen  to  the  same  soft  voice  calling  to  me  not  to  be 
sad.  Then  I  would  close  my  eyes  and  lie  on  the  very 
edge  of  the  rock  so  that  the  spray  might  dash  into  my  face. 
(Rapturously)  It  felt  like  woman's  tears  upon  my  eyes 
and  lips,  and  I  used  to  wonder  why  the  ocean  wept.  But 
now  I  know.  To  all  my  longings,  thoughts,  and  desires 
the  ocean  responded;  so,  in  turn,  she  became  ...  my 
mistress  .  .  .  and  I  love  her  !  There  you  have  my  secret 
(Laughs  loudly  and  harshly)  "Sintram  the  Scatter 
brained"  in  love  with  the  sea ! 

GUNHILDE.  There  is  nothing  so  strange  about  that,  Sintram  ; 
you  have  lived  here  always  and  the  ocean  has  become  a 
part  of  your  life.  If  you  had  been  strong  and  poor  you 
could  have  been  a  sailor.  Why,  look  at  all  the  boys  who 
have  run  away  from  home  to  become  sailors.  Many  men 
love  the  sea  .  .  .  that  is  not  strange. 

SINTRAM  (interrupting  passionately).  They  never  loved  her 
as  I  love  her.  (Takes  her  hand  violently  and  speaks  rap 
idly)  To  me  she  is  not  a  thing  of  water  and  foam,  as  she  is 
to  you,  Gunhilde,  but  she  is  a  woman  !  A  moody,  beautiful 
woman,  with  a  wonderful  body  and  golden  hair,  and  her 
soul  ....  Ah !  how  shall  I  tell  you  of  her  soul  or  of  her 
soft  voice  when  she  loves  me  and  takes  me  in  her  arms  ? 
But  she  is  capricious  ...  as  capricious  as  she  is  beautiful. 

GUNHILDE.  What  do  you  mean?  Is  this  some  poem  that 
you  have  written  ? 

SINTRAM  (oblivious  to  her,  and  talking  to  himself,  staring  all 
the  while  before  him) .  How  many  nights  have  I  lain  awake 
in  my  bed  and  have  listened  to  her  murmur  and  sing  and 
call  me.  Then,  in  an  uncontrollable  frenzy,  when  I  have 
rushed  bare-footed  to  answer  her  bidding,  she  has  mocked 
me  and  scoffed  me ;  she  has  risen  up  in  stormy  anger,  cut- 


88  SINTRAM  OF  SKAGERRAK 

ting  my  face  with  her  lashes  of  spray  and  has  laughed  and 
laughed  at  me,  until  I  have  covered  my  face  with  my  hands 
and  gone  sobbing  back  to  my  bed. 

GUNHILDE.     I  cannot  understand  you,  Sintram. 

SINTRAM.  No,  dear,  no  .  .  .  I  did  not  think  you  would.  I 
hardly  understand  myself;  only  this  I  know,  Gunhilde, 
that  to  go  away  from  here  and  never  to  look  upon  her 
again  is  like  tearing  my  heart  out  of  my  body.  (A  pause 
in  which  he  listens  to  the  crash  of  the  breakers  on  the  rocks 
below)  Here  .  .  .  !  Listen  how  angry  she  is,  and  how 
she  hates  me  to-night. 

GUNHILDE.  What  foolishness  !  It  is  going  to  storm,  that  is 
all. 

SINTRAM.  Oh,  you  have  not  learned  her  language  as  I  have. 
Listen  !  see  if  her  voice  carries  no  meaning  to  you.  (They 
both  listen  silently  for  several  moments,  in  which  a  dull  roar 
and  thud  is  heard;  then  Sintram  begins  to  chant,  strongly 
accenting  every  other  syllable)  Sintram  .  .  .  !  Sintram 
.  .  .  going  .  .  .  away  .  .  .  !  Away  ...  !  To  new 
loves  .  .  .  !  He  is  false  .  .  .  !  False  .  .  .  !  Ugh  .  .  .  ! 
Did  you  hear  her  shriek  then  .  .  .  ? 

GUNHILDE.     No,  I  heard  nothing ;   not  even  the  wind. 

SINTRAM.  She  hates  me,  Gunhilde  .  .  .  my  Beloved  hates 
me !  [He  shudders. 

GUNHILDE  (tenderly  and  sadly).  Would  that  your  voice 
were  so  when  you  talk  of  me ;  your  eyes  never  looked  for 
me  as  they  look  when  you  speak  of  her.  I  love  you, 
Sintram. 

SINTRAM  (indifferently).     Yes  .  .  .  yes  ...  I  know. 

GUNHILDE.  No  .  .  .  you  do  not  know;  not  as  you  think. 
You  have  treated  me  always  as  a  child  ...  a  little  child. 

SINTRAM.     But  you  are  a  child  ! 

GUNHILDE.  I  am  a  woman  ...  a  woman  .  .  .  and  I  love  you. 
(He  looks  at  her  surprised,  almost  startled.  She  lays  her  hand 
on  his)  Forget  your  foolish  fancy,  for  it  is  only  a  fancy, 
and  let  me  be  your  love ;  take  me  away  with  you  to-mor 
row  and  I  will  love  you  forever.  Take  me  .  .  .  do  I  You 


SINTRAM  OF  SKAGERRAK  89 

little  know  how  I  have  suffered  since  I  have  cared  for  you, 
how  my  passion  for  you  has  nearly  killed  me.  All  that  gave 
me  strength  and  courage  was  to  feel  that  you  loved  no  one 
else,  and  now  .  .  .  !  But  soon  you  will  be  well  and  strong 
again,  and  then  you  will  look  back  upon  all  this  as  on  some 
wild,  strange  dream.  [While  speaking,  she  has  been  draw 
ing  closer  to  him  and  has  been  caressing  him.  Now  she  sits 
with  one  arm  about  his  neck,  her  cheek  pressed  to  his. 
SINTRAM.  Oh  .  .  .  how  warm  you  are  .  .  .  how  warm  !  [He 

shivers. 

GTJNHILDE.     Kiss  me  .  .  .  Sintram ! 

SINTRAM  (opening  his  eyes,  looking  into  space  and  talking  to 
himself).  If  I  take  her  with  me  perhaps  I  would  grow 
well  and  strong ;  perhaps  I  would  no  longer  be  lonely  .  .  . 
and  I  might  forget.  .  .  . 

QUNHILDE  (whispering).     Kiss  me,  Sintram  ...  I  love  you ! 
[He  looks  at  her  a  moment,  then  takes  hold  of  her,  and  crushing 
her  with  all  his  strength  to  him,  he  gives  her  a  long  kiss.     Sud 
denly  he  jumps  up,  startling  her,  and  looks  about  excitedly. 
SINTRAM.     What  was  that  ? 
GUNHILDE   (dazed  from  the  suddenness  of  the  interruption). 

What,  Sintram  .  .  .  ?  What  is  it  .  .  .  ? 
SINTRAM.  I  heard  a  dull  thud  .  .  .  and  a  moan  from  the  sea. 
GUNHILDE  (drawing  him  back  to  the  rock).  You  are  fanciful 
and  nervous  to-night.  There  was  no  noise.  (Sintram 
sits  for  a  moment  beside  her,  but  he  is  restless  and  a  strained 
tension  is  visible  in  his  every  motion.  Finally  he  springs  up 
and  runs  to  and  fro  on  the  cliff,  peering  on  every  side;  seeing 
nothing,  he  comes  back  to  Gunhilde.  Rising)  How  strange 
you  are !  I  never  saw  you  so  before.  Is  it  because  you 
are  going  away  to-morrow  ?  Look  at  me.  .  .  .  AT  me 
.  .  .  not  into  space  !  (Awed)  There  is  a  distant,  far-away 
.  .  .  something  ...  in  your  eyes  which  I  have  never  seen 
in  the  eyes  of  any  man.  ...  It  frightens  me !  [She 
draws  away  from  him. 

SINTRAM  (stands  as  though  listening  to  a  far-away  voice,  then 
breaks  out  suddenly).     There  .   .  .   !     Did  you  not  hear  it 


90  SINTRAM  OF  SKAGERRAK 

then?     (This  time  he  dashes  to  the  top  of  the  cliff,  where  he 

had  originally  been  standing;    she  follows  him.     He  stares 

silently  out  at  the  ocean,  moving  nervously  and  excitedly  the 

while;  finally  he  takes  Gunhilde's  hand)      Look  .  .  .  Gun- 

hilde  .  .  .  look ! 
GUNHILDE  (looking  in  the  direction  in  which  he  is  pointing). 

Where  ?     What  ? 
SINTRAM  (straining  his  eyes).     Far  out  beyond  those  jagged 

rocks,  far  ...  far  out! 
GUNHILDE.     I  see  nothing!     (Horrified)     At  what  are  you 

staring  so,  Sintram  ? 
SINTRAM.     There  is  something  white  floating  on  the  waves 

...  it  is  coming  nearer  and  nearer.     (Pause)     I  think  it 

is  .  .  .a  corpse ! 
GUNHILDE  (utters  a  long  drawn  out)     "  Oh  ...  h  ...  h  ... 

h  .  .  .  !  "    (She  lies  down  and  leans  way  over  the  cliff.    Then 

she  rises)  But  I  see  .  .  .  nothing ! 
SINTRAM    (pointing) .     Not    below    us !     There  .  .  .   there ! 

Can  you  not  see  ?     It  is  a  woman  with  open,  glassy  eyes 

and  golden  hair,  entwined  like  a  fisherman's  net  about 

her  white  body. 

GUNHILDE.     All  I  see  is  a  shimmer  of  gold  from  the  moon. 
SINTRAM.     She  is  floating  nearer  .  .  .  nearer  .  .  .   !     Look, 

she  is  not  dead  !     She  moves  !     She  breathes  .  .  .   !     Her 

breast  heaves  slowly ! 
GUNHILDE  (puzzled) .     I  see  nothing  but  the  waves  rising  and 

falling  in  the  moonbeams. 
SINTRAM  (leaning  over  the  cliff) .     Now  she  lies  at  the  very  foot 

of  the  cliff  .  .  .  see  .  .  .  see  .  .  .     (Pause)     She  is  rising 

.  .  .  she  is  standing  upon  the  water.    (Surprised)    Gunhilde 

.  .  .  !     She  is  looking  at  us  !     She  is  calling  me  !     Can  you 

not  hear  her? 
GUNHILDE  (laying  her  hand  on  his  arm  restrainingly) .     Are 

you  mad  .  .  .     Sintram  .  .  .   ! 
SINTRAM  (happily).     She  is  jealous  of  you,  Gunhilde  .  .  . 

my  ocean  love  is  jealous.     (He  laughs  loudly.     Then  he  is 

suddenly  very  still  and  peers  tensely  below  him,  in  happy  as- 


SINTRAM  OF  SKAGERRAK  91 

tonishment)     She  is  beckoning  to  me  .  .  .  she  holds  out 
her  arms  to  me !     (In  ecstasy)     Oh,  Beloved  ...  At  last 
.  .  .    !     [He  extends  his  arms  to  the  imaginary  woman  and 
plunges  headlong  over  the  cliff. 
GUNHILDE  (shrieks).     Sintram  .  .  .    !     Sintram  .  .  .    ! 

(As  the  curtains  close). 


WILL  O'  THE  WISP 

DORIS  F.  HALMAN 

Miss  DORIS  F.  HALMAN  was  born  in  Ellsworth,  Maine, 
October  28,  1895.  She  was  educated  in  Boston,  and 
graduated  from  Radcliffe  in  1916. 

She  has  published  "The  Land  Where  Lost  Things  Go", 
which  received  a  prize  from  the  Drama  League,  and 
Behooves  Us",  plays  written  in  the  interest  of  war  sentiment. 

Her  "Will  O'  the  Wisp"  was  produced  by  Professor  George 
P.  Baker  in  his  "  47  Workshop  "  at  Cambridge,  Massachusetts, 
in  1916,  and  her  "Rusted  Stock"  by  the  same  company  in 
1917.  In  addition,  "Will  O'  the  Wisp"  has  been  given  by 
"The  Players'  Workshop"  of  Chicago,  The  Theatre  Arts 
Club  of  Detroit,  and  by  amateurs  in  New  York  City  and  in 
Ellsworth,  Maine. 


WILL  O'   THE  WISP 


BY  DORIS  F.  HALMAN 


"Will  O'  the  Wisp"  was  originally  produced  under  the 
direction  of  Professor  George  P.  Baker  in  his  "47  Workshop  " 
at  Cambridge,  Massachusetts,  on  December  8,  1916. 

Original  Cast 

THE  WHITE-FACED  GIRL     .     .     .  Miss  Vianna  Knowlton 

THE  COUNTRYWOMAN      ....  Miss  Eleanor  Hinkley 

THE  POET'S  WIFE Miss  Frederica  Gilbert 

THE  SERVING-MAID Miss  Mary  Ellis 


COPYRIGHT,  1916,  BY  DORIS  F.  HALMAN. 
»  All  rights  reserved. 

Application  for  tne  right  of  performing  "Will  O'  the  Wisp"  must  be  made  to  Miss 
Doris  F.  Halman,  32  Webster  Street,  Brookline,  Massachusetts. 


WILL  O'  THE  WISP 

SCENE/  Interior  of  a  farmhouse  ai4he  end  of  things.  A  plain, 
gray  room,  with  black  furniture  and  a  smoke-blackened  fireplace.\ 
Door  to  outside,  left  back.  Door  to  stairs,  right.  Fireplace 
in  upper  rigid-hand  corner;  armchair  in  lower  right-hand  corner. 
Relow  the  door,  left,  a  square  table  with  a  chair  at  either  side. 
fThe  whole  center  of  the  wall,  back,  is  taken  up  by  a  huge  window, 
through  which  one  can  glimpse  the  black  spaces  of  a  moor,  rising 
in  the  distance  to  a  sharp  cliff-head  silhouetted  against  the  in 
tense  blue  of  an  early  evening  sky.  With  the  passage  of  the 
action,  this  blue  fades  into  a  starless  night^  There  are  two 
candles  burning  in  the  room,  one  on  the  table,  the  other  on  a 
sfalf  above  the  armchair. 

\\Vhen  the  curtain  rises,  the  countrywoman,  cm  M  and  with 
ered  dame,  is  lighting  the  candle\on  the  table.  (Crouching  by 
the  relace  aHha  oilier  side  ^p  mnig.,  is  the  ragged  figure  of 


the  fireplace  aHha  oilier  side  rf     p  mnig.,  is  the  ragged  figure  of 

a  girl  with  a  white  face  and  big  wistful  eyes)  a  strange  little 

figure  wearing  a  tight-fitting  gray  cap  which  covers  all  her  hair, 

(a  silent  figure,  never  speaking\    Uniil  she  lifts  her  head,  she  is 

little  more  than  a  dim  gray  heap  in  the  shadows. 

THE  COUNTRYWOMAN.     SQ  I  don't  know  what's  to  become  of 

me  any  more,  with  my  one  boarder  gone.     A  poet  he  was, 

to  be  sure,  but  a  good  one  ;  and  he  paid  me  enough  every 

summer  to  keep  my  soul  and  body  together  through  the 

rest  of  the  long  year.     Seven  summers  he  came  that  way, 

and  now  the  time's  gone  by,  and  I  hear  never  no  word. 

How  I'm  to  keep  myself  alive,  I  don't  know  ;   and  since 

I've  took  you  in,  bless  you,  there's  the  two  of  us.     It  may 

be  you'll  have  to  go  again,  tfc«-w»y~yo«-<jame,  out  of  the 


98  WILL  O'  THE  WISP 

night,  though  you're  a  great  comfort  bem'-here  to  talk 
to,  and  a  help  to  me  in  my  work.  Not  but  what  there'd 
be  more  comfort  yet,  if  your  poor  tongue  weren't  cursed 
with  dumbness !  (She  turns  away,  sighing,  and  a  queer 
smile  flickers  over  the  stray's  face) 

Dear  sake,  yes,  I'm  growin'  used  to  you.  But  a  stray  who 
comes  to  the  land's  end  is  as  welcome  as  any  other.  Nor 
are  those  likely  to  reach  here  at  all,  who  aren't  vagabonds 
—  or  poets.  By  which  I  think  that  my  poet  is  gone  for 
good,  and  you  must  follow  after,  and  then  I'll  be  left  to 
dwell  for  the  rest  of  my  days  alone  with  the  spirits  of  the 
moor  and  of  the  sea  beyond.  Oh,  alack  !  (She  sits  down, 
wiping  her  eyes) 

I'll  not  forget  the  night  you  came.  A  month  ago  it  was ; 
the  second  of  June ;  and  the  day  before  was  the  time  the 
poet  always  come,  himself.  When  I  see  your  white  face 
peerin'  through  the  window  there,  I  thought  'twas  him, 
late,  and  lookin'  in  for  the  joke  of  it,  to  see  if  I'd  given 
him  up.  Then  in  another  minute  you  was  standin'  in  the 
door,  poor  white  creature  that  you  were.  And  behind  you 
was  the  wind  sweepin'  over  the  moor,  and  the  waves  sighin' 
up  the  cliffhead  from  the  sea.  God  knows  where  you  come 
from,  and  you  couldn't  tell.  But  you're  not  troublesome. 
(The  creature  smiles  at  her,  as  the  old  woman  goes  over  to  her, 
and  pats  her  shoulder) 

No,  you're  not.  Neither  was  he.  Off  all  the  time  he  was, 
with  the  will-o'-the-wisps  of  the  field  and  the  mermaids  of 
the  deep,  learnin'  their  sweet  songs.  No  trouble  at  all, 
either  of  you,  —  only,  he  paid.  (A  knock  at  the  door.  -The 
old  woman  starts  and  cries  out  joyfully.  As  she  hurries  to 
open,  she  does  not  notice  that  the  girl's  face  grows  illumined 
as  she  stretches  forth  her  thin  arms  in  a  gesture  of  infinite 
grace) 

He's  come !     After  four  weeks,  at  last !    He'll  pay  again  ! 
[TJiedoor,  opened  by  her,  reveals  a  woman  in  her  thirty-fifth 
year,  dressed  in  the  extreme  of  style.     She  enters,  followed  by  a 
black-clad  maid,  who  carries  a  traveling  bag.     Disappointed, 


WILL  O'   THE  WISP  99 

biii  amazed,  ~the~  old  woman  falls  back  before  her.     By  this 
time*  the  figure  near  the  fireplace  is  crouching  expressionless 
QS  before. 
THE  STYLISH  LADY.     Is  this  the  farmhouse  at  the  land's  end  ? 

THE  COUNTRYWOMAN.       Yes,  SO  please  yOU. 

[She  curtsies  as  weU  as  her  bent  back  will  permit.     The  stray's 

^es  have  gone  from  the  lady  to  the  maid,  and  are  fixed  on  the 

servant  wJien  the  lady  speaks. 

THE  LADY.    r4fe  !  —  You  may  set  down  the  bag,  Nora. 
THE  MAID  (with  a  soft  brogue}.     Ye~Si~mff*3Tm. 

[She  gazes  nervously  about  the  dusky  room. 
THE  LADY  (to  the  countrywoman) .     My  husband  sent  me  to 

you. 

[Quick  as  a  flash,  the  stray's  big  eyes  are  fastened  on  the  lady. 

T1i£y  never  waver  till  the  end  of  the  scene. 
THE   COUNTRYWOMAN.     Your   husband ?  How?     There   are 

no  husbands  at  the  land's  end.     Nobody  but  me. 
THE  LADY.     My  husband  has  been  here.     He  used  to  board 

with  you,  in  the  summer  time. 

THE  COUNTRYWOMAN.       Oh  !      The  poet  ? 

THE  LADY.     Yes.     I  am  the  poet's  wife. 

THE  COUNTRYWOMAN.  ,  -#TTb- 

THE  LADY.  We've  not  been  married  very  long.  (She  hastens 
to  add,  with  a  forced  sigh)  Of  course,  it  pained  me  to  leave 
him !  But  I  was  so  wearied  from  social  pleasures  that  he 
wanted  me  to  rest ;  and  what  was  I  to  do ?  I^was-^ven 
growing  bored,  net  being  as  fresh  as  he  to  such  fulness  of 
Ufe.  But  you  can  know  nothing  of  that,  here  at  the  end 
of  things.  You've  never  seen  the  world? 

THE  COUNTRYWOMAN  (glancing  through  the  window).  I've 
seen  how  big  it  L,  and  how  —  queer. 
[Her  .voice  .OIQW& Jiushed  witii  awe.  Follows  a  slight  pause. 
The  serving-maid  bec-omes  aware  of  the  crouching  stray,  and 
moves  farther  away,  crossing  herself.  The  lady's  stare  at  the 
old  woman  ends  in  a  burst  of  laughter. 

THE  LADY.  Oh,  how  amusing  !  I  think  I  shall  enjoy  my  stay 
with  you.  Will  you  take  me  in  for  a  while  ? 


100  WILL  O'  THE  WISP 

THE  COUNTRYWOMAN  (cackling  with  pleasure).     Now,  by  all 

tke-ele«4*-iir-fcfee-sky-ttr-Tiigtit,  I  will! 
THE  LADY.     I  shall  require  a  room  for  myself  and  another  for 

my  maid. 
THE   COUNTRYWOMAN.     And  your  husband,   good   ma'am? 

Doesn't  he  come  ? 
THE  LADY.     No.     I  thought  better  not.  .  .  .     There  seemed 

to  be  some  influence  here  that  was  not  good  for  him. 
THE  COUNTRYWOMAN.     Here,  ma'am  ?     At  the  land's  end  he 

loved  so  much  ? 

THE  LADY  (laughing  unpleasantly) .     Oh,  I  don't  deny  he  found 
his  inspiration  in  this  neighborhood.     Summer  brought  his 
best  work,  every  one  knows  that.  .  .  .     Tell  me,  how  did 
he  use  to  spend  his  time  ? 
THE  COUNTRYWOMAN.     Why,  most  of  it,  out  there. 

[She  waves  her  hand  toward  the  darkening  scene  beyond  the 

windows.  ^\n  'f 

THE  LADY  (sitting  at  the  right  of  the  table).     Ah?     You  see,  he 

never  told  me  about  it  in  detail,  for  fear  I  —  couldn't 

understand.     But  you  think  I  can  understand,  don't  you  ? 

THE   COUNTRYWOMAN.     Good  ma'am,   are  you   acquainted 

with  the  spirits  ? 

THE  LADY.     Certainly  not !     What  spirits  ? 
THE  COUNTRYWOMAN.     Those  he  knew. 
THE  LADY.     Oh  !  So  he  did  have  other  friends  —  beside  your 
self? 

THE  COUNTRYWOMAN.  They  was  all  his  friends,  good  ma'am. 
He's  the  only  person  I  ever  knew  could  walk  on  the  moor  by 
night,  without  the  will-o'-the-wisp  should  dance  him  over 
the  cliff.  Instead  o'  that,  it  taught  him  the  tune  it  dances 
to,  and  he  made  a  song  out  of  it.  My  own  man  ventured 
into  the  darkness  years  ago,  and  never  came  back  more. 
But  the  poet  and  It  was  friends. 
THE  LADY.  A  will-o'-the-wisp,  what  is  that  ? 
THE  COUNTRYWOMAN  (in  a  voice  of  awe) .  It's  what  keeps  you 
in  the  house  o'  nights.  It's  a  wavin'  light  that  beckons  you 
to  follow  it.  And  when  you've  been  for  miles  and  miles, 


WILL  O'  THE  WISP  101 

always  behind,  why,  then  it  leaves  you ;  and  the  morning 
finds  you  dead  in  a  ravine,  or  floatin'  under  the  cliff-head 
in  the  sea. 

THE  LADY  (laughing).  Oh,  really!  What  a  rileasant  com 
panion  for  my  husband  !  (The  crouching  figure  zrseps  for 
ward  a  bit  from  its  place  by  the  fireside.  Again  the-  maid, 
flattened  against  the  wall,  crosses  herself)  But  pray  tell 
me,  whom  else  d;d  he  know? 

THE  COUNTRYWOMAN.  Poor  Will,  a  goblin  who  cries  through 
the  land's  end,  under  the  curse  of  an  old,  old  sin.  And 
the  mermaids  with  green  hair,  that  sing  when  a  ship  goes 
down. 

THE  LADY.     Did  my  husband  tell  you  all  this  ? 

THE  COUNTRYWOMAN.  Yes,  good  ma'am,  and  more;  when 
ever  for  hunger  he  come  home,  he  had  .a  tale  for  me, 

THE  LADY.     And  you  believed  it  ? 

THE  COUNTRYWOMAN.  He  was  a  dear  young  man,  I'm  not 
even  blamin'  the  spirits,  that  they  loved  him. 

THE  LADY  (laughing) .     But,  I  mean,  do  you  believe  in  spirits  ? 

THE  COUNTRYWOMAN.  How  could  I  choose  ?  I  see  them,  I 
hear  them.  The  night  your  husband  should  have  come  — 
that  was  the  first  of  June  —  I  saw  the  will-o'-the-wisp  out 
yonder  on  the  moor,  as  plain  as  I  see  my  candles.  Not 
dancin'  it  was,  but  goin*  quite  slow  and  steady-like,  with 
its  lantern  lit,  as  if  it  was  seekin'  him.  And  I'm  not 
wonderin*  if,  sooner  or  later,  it  didn't  come  peepin'  and 
lookin'  through  this  very  window  into  my  house,  to  find 
the  friend  it  missed. 

THE  LADY.     Oh,  what  nonsense  !     What  utter,  silly  bosh  ! 
[The  serving-maid  comes  down  to  the  left  of  the  table,  speaking 
in  a  worried  whisper. 

THE  MAID.  I'd  not  be  sayin'  the  like,  ma'am,  if  I  was  you. 
It's  offering  the  goblins  temptation. 

THE  LADY  (turning,  astonished).  What  You,  too,  Nora? 
I  thought  you  had  more  sense ! 

THE  MAID.  In  the  old  country,  ma'am,  it's  the  way  -with  us 
all,  to  believe. 


102  WILL  O'  THE  WISP 

THE  LADY.     Oh,  dear  me  !     Well,  I  can't  grow  superstitious, 

Nora,  just  to  oblige  you.     That  will  do. 
THE  MAI.D.   I  Yes,  ma'am.  .  .  .     But  I  think  I'll  be  leaving 


THE  LADY.    ,  What  ? 

THE  MAID.     Oh,  it's  afraid  I  am,  what  with  the  old  woman's 

talk,  and  the  look  of  the  moor  outside.     We'd  better  be 

going,  ma'am,  the  both  of  us.     There's  no  good  waits  for 

us  here. 
THE  LADY.     You  may  go  when  you  please.     For  myself,  I 

prefer  to  stay  and  meet  —  some  of  my  husband's  friends. 

I  shall  certainly  not  be  frightened  away  by  the  tales 

my  husband  —  left  behind  for  me. 

[She  laughs  again  unpleasantly;    and  the  creeping  figure 

comes  very  near  her  chair.     Across  the  table,  the  maid  bursts 

into  tears,  and  sinks  down  in  the  chair  opposite. 
THE  MAID  (sobbing)  .     How.  shall  I  take  me  way  back,  alone  ? 

Oh,  the  Lord  pity  me  ! 
THE  COUNTRYWOMAN.     There,  there,  good  soul,  the  spirits 

wish  you  no  harm,  they'll  not  hurt  you. 
THE  LADY  (impatiently)  .     Oh,  both  of  you,  be  still  ! 
THE  COUNTRYWOMAN.     Now,  you  see,  your  husband  should 

have  come. 
THE  LADY.     My  good  woman,  I  told  you,  I  preferred  not; 

he  is  so  contented  where  he  is  —  among  my  friends. 
THE  COUNTRYWOMAN.     Alack  !     Is  he  then  never  to  come 

again  ? 

THE  LADY.     Don't  expect  him. 
THE  COUNTRYWOMAN.     But  the  songs  ?     The  tunes  he  made, 

and  paid  for  with  his  heart  ? 
THE  LADY.     Fortunately,  it's  no  longer  a  question  of  that. 

[The  stray's  white  face  peers  round  at  her.     Its  eyes  seem  to 

burn  the  woman  in  the  chair. 
THE   COUNTRYWOMAN.     Good  ma'am,   pretty   ma'am,    you 

don't  mean  he's  give  up  —  singin'  ? 
THE  LADY.     Oh,  yes.     Poets  usually  do,  you  know,   when 

they  marry  rich  women.     Weak,  the  lot  of  them. 


WILL  O'   THE  WISP  103 

[The  Grouching  figure  half  starts  up;    its  teeth  are   bared; 

then  it  sinks  back  again.     The  countrywoman  ,  covering  her 

head  with  h&r  apron,  begins  to  sway  in  her  chair. 
THE  COUNTRYWOMAN.     Alack  !     Alack  the  day  !     Alack  the 

winter  time  ! 
THE  LADY.     Indeed?     I  didn't  know  people  like  you  cared 

for  poetry. 

THE  COUNTRYWOMAN.     He'll  sing  no  more,  he'll  pay  no  more. 

still. 


THE  LADY.  Ah,  now  I  understand  you.  You  have  a  point 
of  view  ;  well,  so  have  the  wives  of  poets.  Just  as  he  gave 
comfort  in  return  for  his  inspiration,  we  give  them 
ease  in  which  to  love  us.  Why  shouldn't  we?  Why 
should  they  -pl*y  at  their  little  toy  battle  with  life,  when 
we  can  put  all  existence  into  their  very  hands  ?  That  is 
our  mission;  and  it  makes  them  very  comfortable,  I  as 
sure  you. 

[The  stray  springs  up  with  clawing  hands  behind  the  lady. 
The  countrywoman  sees  her. 

THE  COUNTRYWOMAN.     Here,  girl,  here! 

[At  the  cry,  the  stray  sinks  back  on  the  fltior.  But  her  eyes 
never  cease  to  burn  the  woman's  face.  The  poet's  wife,  looking 
down,  has  now  become  aware  of  her.  Her  silly  suspicion  seems 
assured. 

THE  LADY  (sharply)  .     Who  is  this  ? 

THE  COUNTRYWOMAN  (moving  the  stray  back).  A  poor  waif, 
ma'am.  A  harmless,  dumb  waif,  who  helps  me  in  the 
house. 

THE  LADY.  Oho  !  Did  you  mention  her  among  my  hus 
band's  friends  ? 

THE  COUNTRYWOMAN.  Why,  no.  He  never  saw  her.  Been 
here  only  a  month,  ske-has,  the  poor  creature. 

THE  LADY.     Where  did  she  come  from? 

THE  COUNTRYWOMAN.     The  good  Lord  knows  !     Not  I. 

THE  LADY.  -Ah.  Well,  from  the  looks  of  her,  I  should  say 
it  didn't  matter,  how  long  she  was  with  you.  .  .  .  Come 
here,  girl. 


104  WILL  O'  THE  WISP 

THE  COUNTRYWOMAN.     Mind  what  the  lady  bids  you. 

[The  figure  on  the  floor  lifts  a  face,  now  expressionless,  to  the 
poet's  wife.  Fvr  the  third  time,  the  maid  crosses  herself. 

THE  LADY.  Hm  !  The  total  effect  of  you  is  not  —  dangerous. 
(She-takes the  sir  ay's  face  between  her  hands.  A~moleni  shud 
der  shakes  the  latter  from  head  to  foot,  as  she  shrinks  back  with 
a  gliding  motion  ;  but  this  does  not  discourage  the  poet's  wife) 
Don't  be  afraid  of  me,  silly  thing  !  (She  turns  to  the  country 
woman)  Funny  how  fashion  impresses  them,  isn't  it? 
This  girl  turned  clammy  cold. 

THE  COUNTRYWOMAN  (nodding).     It's  the  feel  of  her. 
[  The  poet's  wife  returns  to  her  scrutiny  of  the  girl's  face. 

THE  LADY.  Yet,  you  know,  your  features  aren't  so  bad. 
If  you  only  had  a  little  color.  .  .  .  You  should  never 
wear  gray  with  that  white  face  of  yours.  (She  addresses  the 
room  in  general,  and  the  maid  in  particular)  Country  people 
invariably  have  no  idea  how  to  dress.  Eh,  Nora  ? 

THE  MAID.  Ma'am,  for  the  love  of  God,  be  careful !  I'm 
not  liking  the  eyes  of  herself ! 

THE  LADY  (laughing  lightly).  Oh,  her  eyes  are  so  much  bet 
ter  than  her  clothes  !  But  I  forgot ;  you're  not  fit  to  talk 
to  to-night,  are  you  ?  Well,  that  will  do.  (She  turns  back 
to  the  countrywoman)  Why  do  you  let  your  servant  wear 
that  awful  cap  ?  Doesn't  she  ever  take  it  off  ? 

THE  COUNTRYWOMAN.  Many's  the  time  I've  spoke  of  it; 
but  it's  a  stubborn  habit  with  her.  So  I  lets  her  have  her 
way,  for  peace. 

THE  LADY  (to  the  stray).  But,  my  poor  girl,  that  cap  is  awful ! 
If  only  your  hair  showed,  you'd  be  so  much  better  looking. 
What  makes  you  wear  it  ? 

[For  answer,  the  stray,  rising,  shuffles  past  the  poet's  wife  to 
the  table.  It  is  the  first  time  during  the  scene  that  she  has  looked 
away  from  her.  As  she  nears  the  table,  the  maid  on  the  other 
side  shrinks  back.  Once  there,  the  stray  turns  on  the  woman, 
and,  watching  her  instead  of  what  she  herself  does,  she  reaches 
for  the  candle.  She  lifts  the  metal  extinguisher  from  the  candle 
stick,  holds  it  out  so  that  the  poet's  wife  may  see  it,  then  with  a 

&•    r-A.  \s****~' 


WILL  O'  THE  WISP  105 

quick  motion  places  it  over  the  flame.     The  candle  goes  out, 

leaving  the  room  dim  with  one  light.     In  her  nervousness,  the 

serving-maid  sobs  once  aloud. 
THE  COUNTRYWOMAN.     What~would  this  be? 
THE  LADY.     Do-yxiuJiiiQw  what  she  meant  ? 
THE  COUNTRYWOMAN.     I  don't  see  —  I  don't  see.  .  .  . 
THE  LADY.     She's  probably  mad,  poor  soul. 
THE  MAID.     Oh,  Mother  of  God !     Mother  of  God !     The 

magic ! 
THE  LADY.     I  fail  to  find  any  magic  in  a  candle  going  out, 

when  I've  just  watched  the  process.     Really,  I  prefer  bed 

to  such  gloomy  companionship.     (She  rises,  and  speaks  to 
~~Jhe  countrywoman)    Will  you  light  us  upstairs,  please.    I'm 

quite  sorry  I  came. 
THE  COUNTRYWOMAN  (re-lighting  the  second  candle).     There, 

there,   good  ma'am.     It'll  all  be  more  cheerful  in  the 

morning. 
THE  LADY.     I  feel  as  if  morning  would  never  come,  with  this 

whole  night  dragging  at  me. 

[The  countrywoman  gives  tfie  candle  to  Nora,  who  has  picked 

up  her  mistress'  bag.     Then  the  old  dame  crosses  toward  the 

candle  on  the  shelf. 
THE  *  COUNTRYWOMAN.     Now,  if  you  and  your  woman  will 

follow  me.  .  .  .     TbdELpost's  room  was  ready  for  him.  .  .  . 

[This  mention  of  the  poet  brings  another  convulsive  motion 

from  the  stray.     The-lady's  attention  is  thereby  arrested. 
THE  LADY.     Where  does  that  creature  sleep? 
THE  COUNTRYWOMAN.     Oh,  down  here,  on  a  mat  by  the  fire 
side.     She'll  not  trouble  you  more,  good  ma'am.     She'll 

not  trouble  you  more. 

[She  opens  tlie  door  to  the  stairs. 
THE  LADY  (after  a  brief  hesitation).     Come,  Nora. 

[She  goes  out.     The  countrywoman  pauses  to  speak  to  the 

stray. 
THE    COUNTRYWOMAN.     Good    night,    girl.     Go    to     sleep 

quietly.     (She  disappears,  and  we  hear  her  voice)     Now, 

good  ma'am.     Now,  so  please  you.  .  .  . 


106  WILL  O'  THE  WISP 

[  The  room,  lighted  only  by  Nora's  candle,  is  dim  again.  Out 
side,  the  night  is  very  black.  The  serving-maid  crosses  the  room 
silently.  In  its  center,  she  passes  close  to  the  stray,  who  has 
crept  there  to  look  after  the  poet's  wife.  The  maid,  making  a 
quick  detour,  gasps  with  terror.  When  she  reaches  the  fireplace, 
she  rushes  for  the  stairs  with  a  little  scream  that  puts  her  candle 
out;  we  hear  the  door  bang  behind  her.  The  room  is  com 
pletely  black. 

A  silence.  Then  the  motion  of  some  one  springing  upright; 
and  the  place  is  suffused  with  a  dim  glow  of  orange  light.  The 
light  shines  from  the  orange-red  hair  of  the  white-faced  girl,  a 
burning  mass  of  quivering,  gleaming  strands.  And  the  girl 
herself  stands  revealed^  a  spirit-creature,  red  and  white  and 
clad  in  fluttering  gray,  her  body  slim  and  swaying  with  infinite 
grace.  Not  even  the  poet's  wife  could  question  the  beauty  of  her 
wild  white  face,  lit  into  a  fierce  exaltation  by  the  glow  of  that 
tumbling  hair.  In  her  fingers  is  the  ugly  cap,  held  mockingly 
toward  the  door;  and  then  she  drops  it. 

Now  a  faint  music  sounds  from  somewhere,  a  langorous 
melody  ;  and  the  spirit  begins  to  sway  to  it.  Not  quite  a  dance 
yet  nothing  else,  this  moving  through  the  room. 
The  door  to  the  stairs  opens,  and  the  poet's  wife  appears,  trail 
ing  a  white  room-robe  about  her.  The  white-faced  girl  smiles 
at  her,  smiles  quite  close  to  her,  with  a  demon  behind  her 
smile. 

THE  LADY.  Who  are  you  ?  —  Why  do  you  smile  at  me,  — 
unless  —  you're  glad  that  I  came  down  ?  —  You  knew  I 
would  answer  to  that  music  —  he  used  to  sing  me  a  song 
to  it,  when  he  courted  me.  —  Was  it  out  of  his  love  for 
you,  he  made  that  song  ?  —  Oh,  it  might  well  have  been, 
you  with  your  long  white  arms  and  your  strange  white 
face  !  —  But  he  sang  it  to  me,  do  you  hear  ?  To  me,  to 
me,  to  me,  it  is  my  song ! 

You  smile.  —  You  are  so  sure  it  isn't  mine.  —  But  you 
aren't  singing  it  now,  any  more  than  I  am  !  —  Where  does 
that  music  come  from  ?  —  What  are  you  ? 
Oh,  I  knew  there  was  something  here  that  held  him. —  I 


WILL  O'   THE  WISP  107 

had  all  the  right  to  him.  —  I  took  his  life,  and  made  of  it 
what  I  would,  —  but  I  couldn't  reach  his  soul.  It 
was  bound  up  to  something  else,  his  soul.  —  I  wanted 
to  see.  —  I  see  now.  —  But  I  don't  understand ! 
What  are  you  ?  Can  you  talk  ?  You  can,  you  can,  you 
devil !  You  called  me  down  to  tell  your  story,  didn't 
you  ?  Well,  triumph  over  me,  —  triumph  !  —  only  speak  I 
(The  white-faced  girl,  in  her  dance,  is  moving  toward  the  outer 
door,  ever  eluding  the  poet's  wife,  who  takes  a  few  steps  after  her) 
No,  you're  not  going  away  without  it,  you  and  your  magic 
hair  !  (She  reaches  desperately  for  the  waving  hand,  which 
glides  from  under  her  grasp) 

You  burned  him  with  that  hair  —  you  burned  the  soul  out 
of  him.  —  But  now  I've  come  in  his  place,  and  you  can't 
burn  me,  and  I  will  learn  why  you  smile !  (Again  the 
reach,  and  the  white  hand  slips  away) 

Do  you  mean  you  can't  talk  ?  —  Or  do  you  want  me  alone  ? 
(The  Wiiite-faced  girl,  near  the  door,  has  raised  a  beckon 
ing  hand.  There  is  now  a  teasing  invitation  in  her  smile) 
Oh,  I'm  not  afraid  to  go  with  you,  out  there!  —  Wait! 
Wait ! 

[For  the  white-faced  girl  has  opened  the  door..  As  the  poet's 
wife  crosses  the  room,  the  countrywoman  comes,  drawn  by  the 
talk,  down  the  stairs.  She  gives  a  sudden  shriek. 

THE  COUNTRYWOMAN.       Qky  God  ! 

THE  LADY  (briefly  turning,  annoyed).     What,  you? 

THE  COUNTRYWOMAN.     I  heard.     I  came.     (The  poet's  wife 

takes  another  step) 

Don't  follow,  don't  follow,  for  the  love  of  Heaven  !     It's  the 

Will-O'-The-Wisp ! 

[In  the  doorway,  the  white-faced  girl  stoops,  and  smiles  her 

smile,  and  beckons. 
THE  LADY  (with  authority) .     Let  be  !  —  I  am  going  after  her  ! 

—  I  am  going  to  learn  the  truth  ! 

[She  nears  the  door,  just  as  the  serving-maid  appears  at  the 

foot  of  the  stairs.     With  a  scream,  Nora  rushes  to  the  poet's 

wife,  and  clings  to  her. 


108  WILL  O'  THE  WISP 

THE  MAID.  Stay  back !  Stay  back !  It's  to  your  death 
you  go ! 

THE  LADY  (pushing  her  to  the  floor}.     Take  your  hands  off  me. 
—  There  are  no  such  things  as  spirits  !  —  It's  a  trick  they 
•  made  for  me  !  —  my  husband  and  her  !     WAIT !  — 
[For  the  white-faced  girl  has  passed  outside.     Only  the  glow 
of  her  hair,  quite  near,  shines  in  through  the  open  door. 

THE  COUNTRYWOMAN.     The  Will-O'-The-Wisp  !  —  It's  her  ! 
-  It's  her ! 

THE  MAID  (crying  out  at  the  same  time).  Stop,  I  tell  ye  !  — 
Stop,  stop,  stop  !  I  CfrvuUL  ^ 

[The  poet's  wife  is  on  the  threshold.  The  orange  light  re- 
cefas,  and  the  room  darkens. 

THE  LADY  (almost  majestic).  Wait!  —  I'm  not  afraid!  — 
WAIT  FOR  ME  !  - 

[She,  too,  passes  outside  the  door.  The  serving-maid  breaks 
into  a  torrent  of  sobs.  After  a  moment,  in  which  the  country 
woman  reaches  the  window,  the  room  is  black  again.  And  the 
music  has  died  away. 

THE  COUNTRYWOMAN.  Hush  !  —  (The  sobs  of  the  serving-maid 
die  down  to  a  low  moan)  Come  here  by  me  at  the  window. 
Ah,  see ! 

THE  MAID  (whispering) .     What  is  it  ? 

[Now  through  door  and  window,  there  can  be  seen  in  the  dis 
tance  a  moving  light,  growing  smaller  and  smaller,  making 
straight  for  where  one  saw  the  cliff-head  over  the  sea. 

THE  COUNTRYWOMAN.  The  light !  The  Will-O'-The-Wisp  ! 
And  something  white  behind  it. 

THE  MAID  (whispering) .     Is  it  —  me  mistress  ? 

THE  COUNTRYWOMAN  (turning  away) .  Yes.  God  have  mercy 
upon  her. 

[  The  maid  has  dragged  herself  over  to  the  window,  and  kneels 
on  the  floor,  looking  out. 

THE  MAID.  A  shadow  in  the  dark,  lit  up  by  that  thing 
ahead  !  Oh,  it  is  !  It  is  ! 

THE  COUNTRYWOMAN  (nerving  herself  for  the  sight).  Ah,  the 
spirit !  —  it's  out  beyond  the  cliff-head  !  And  the  cold  sea 


WILL  O'  THE  WISP  109 

lies  beneath !     Woe  to  one  who  follows  the  Will-O'-The- 
Wisp !     Woe ! 

[  Then  a  slight  pause,  in  which  the  light  no  longer  moves. 
THE  MAID  (crying  out) .     Look,  where  the  light  is  after  stand 
ing  still !     And  not  a  sign  of  her !  —  Oh,  she's  gone  over  ! 
Gone,  she  is  !     And  she'll  never  come  back !  — 
[She  starts  to  keen  —  three  long  ochones  —  as  the  curtain  falls. 


"BEYOND" 

ALICE   GERSTENBERG 

Miss  ALICE  GERSTENBERG  was  born  in  Chicago  and  was 
educated  there  and  at  Bryn  Mawr  College.  Her  first  novel, 
"  Unquenched  Fire  ",  was  published  in  1912  and  republished 
in  England  the  following  year.  Miss  Gerstenberg's  other 
publications  are  a  novel,  "  The  Conscience  of  Sarah  Platt ", 
"A  Little  World",  a  book  of  four  short  plays  for  girls; 
"Overtones",  a  one-act  play;  and  "Alice  in  Wonderland", 
a  three-act  dramatization  of  Lewis  Carroll's  "Alice  in 
Wonderland"  and  "Through  the  Looking-Glass." 

"  Overtones  "  was  produced  with  great  success  by  the  Wash 
ington  Square  Players  during  their  first  season,  and  later  by 
vaudeville  companies  in  which  Helene  Lackaye  and  Lily 
Langtry  starred.  "Alice  in  Wonderland"  was  produced  at 
the  Fine  Arts  Theatre,  Chicago,  and  at  the  Booth  Theatre, 
New  York  City.  The  music  for  the  dramatization  was 
written  by  Eric  De  Lamarter.  Under  Miss  Gerstenberg's 
own  supervision,  the  Players'  Workshop  of  Chicago  pro 
duced  her  "Beyond",  and  "The  Pot  Boiler."  "The  Pot 
Boiler",  in  addition,  has  been  played  in  the  Theatre  Work 
shop  of  New  York,  by  the  Arthur  Maitland  Players,  San 
Francisco,  in  the  trenches  in  France,  and  in  vaudeville.  Other 
one-act  productions  of  Miss  Gerstenberg  are  :  "  The  Unseen  ", 
"  The  Buffer  ",  "  Attuned  ",  "  Hearts  ",  "  He  Said  and  She 
Said  ",  and  "  The  War  Game  "  (written  in  collaboration). 


"BEYOND" 


Miss  Gerstenberg  has  not  confined  her  activities  in  behalf 
of  the  drama  to  the  writing  of  plays,  however.  She  is  Secre 
tary  of  the  Society  of  Midland  Authors,  a  member  of  the 
Drama  League  Board  in  Chicago,  Chairman  of  a  Drama 
Committee  at  the  Chicago  Arts  Club,  and  President  of  the 
Chicago  Bryn  Mawr  College  Club. 


BEYOND 


BY  ALICE   GERSTENBERG 


"Beyond"  was  originally  produced  by  the  Players*  Work 
shop  of  Chicago,  April  23,  1917. 

Original  Cast 

A  WOMAN  Gertrude  Hemken 

Stage  setting  designed  and  executed  by  J.  Blanding  Sloan. 


COPYKIGHT,   1917,  BY   ALICE  GER8TENBBBQ. 

All  rights  reserved. 

Application  for  the  right  of  performing  "Beyond"  must  be  made  to  Miss  Alice 
Gerstenberg,  539  Deming  Place,  Chicago. 


"BEYOND" 

SCENE.  The  curtain  rises  in  darkness.  The  stage  lights 
up  slowly. 

The  scene  suggests  limitless  space  and  mist  and  is  played  be 
hind  a  curtain  of  gauze.  The  floor  rises  from  right  to  left  as  if 
misty  clouds  had  made  irregular  stepping  stones  to  heights  off 
left.  The  wraith  of  a  woman  enters,  looking  misty  in  blue, 
lavender,  and  flesh  colored  chiffon,  but  one  is  ls$s  conscious  of 
body  than  of  the  embodiment  of  spirit.  She  enters  timidly,  in 
awe,  not  sure  of  a  welcome.  She  has  died  and  is  now  passing 
upward  to  meet  and  to  be  judged  by  the  All  Powerful  whom  she 
cannot  see  but  whom  she  supposes  is  high  up  of  left.  She  speaks 
in  that  direction  and  moves  slowly  from  right  to  left  as  if  drawn 
by  a  magnet. 

WRAITH.  Is  this  the  way  I  should  go  ?  You  send  no  answer. 
Yet  I  am  drawn  this  way,  and  it  leads  upward.  Are  You 
drawing  me  to  Your  Throne  for  judgment  ?  I  see  nothing, 
my  eyes  are  still  blind  to  God,  and  yet  I  have  died ;  that 
other  part  of  me  lies  white  and  cold,  unwarmed  by  the 
burning  candles,  the  petals  of  pink  roses,  and  the  kisses  of 
the  one  who  weeps  for  me.  (  Does  his  desire  for  me  halt 
the  progress  of  my  soul,  does  his  great  love  for  me  still 
keep  me  thinking  of  him?  /And  because  I  think  of  him  - 
do  You  keep  me  blind  to  You  ?  That  would  be  strange  ! 
For  when  I  lived,  my  love  for  him  seemed  to  bring  me 
nearer  to  You.  Does  it  follow  then  that  to  know  You  in 
life  one  must  love  —  and  to  know  You  in  death  one  must 
forget  ?  But  I  do  not  want  to  forget  him !  (Pauses 
anxiously)  Are  You  angry?  You  do  not  answer.  All 


116  "BEYOND" 


is  silent.  I  am  alone,  terribly  alone.  (Takes  timid  step 
forward  left) 

J J  seeni  to  have  come  a  very  long  way.  I  seem  to  have  the 
form  of  myself;  yet  I  left  it  solidly  back  there.  This 
which  I  am  is  not  solid  —  as  if  able  at  any  moment  to  melt 
into  mist  —  but  if  I  become  mist  where  does  that  "I"  of 
44 me"  go  that  can  think?  I  do  not  want  to  lose  the  "I" 
of  "me"  that  thinks.  Must  I  lose  it?  (Pauses') 
Perhaps  You  are  jealous  of  Your  Power  and  will  not  take  me 
in  until  I  let  You  merge  my  "  I "  in  You !  But  I  do  not 
want  to  obliterate  myself !  I  am  //  Yet,  if  You  say  that 
You  are  You,  the  weaker  of  us  must  give  in  !  That  means 
—  Oh,  You  are  terribly  strong  and  make  me  afraid ! 
(Retreats  a  step)  They  teach  us  to  be  afraid  of  You.  They 
quote  Your  threats  from  the  Book.  They  say  You  have 
promised  punishments  beyond  the  imagination  of  human 
minds  for  limitless  agony,  but  I  do  not  believe  it !  (Softly) 
If  You  are  without  pity,  You  are  not  God !  (Pauses) 
You  might  have  struck  me  because  I  am  rebellious  and 
critical  of  You,  but  nothing  has  happened. 
(Steps  forward  left)  I  am  daring  to  come  a  little  nearer  to 
You.  If  it  is  Your  decree  that  I  walk  this  way,  as  mil 
lions  have  walked  before  me  and  millions  will  after  me, 

vjfou  ought  to  take  care  of  me. 

They  tell  and  believe  a  lot  of  things  about  You,  but  no  man 
really  knows.  Will  You  tell  me  Your  secret?  Or  must 
I  wander  eternally  ?  If  You  have  nothing  more  than  this 
to  offer,  it  would  be  better  to  go  back  to  him.  He  is  call 
ing.  (Puts  hands  to  her  ears)  I  would  rush  back  if  I 
could  but  I  do  not  seem  able,  nor  can  I  go  forward  very 
fast.  Why  is  it?  What  do  You  want  me  to  do  ?  (Pauses) 
Can  You  not  understand  my  language  ?  or  do  You  refuse 
to  hear  ?  Are  You  going  to  forget  me  ?  Is  this  terrible 
silence  to  be  my  punishment?  Have  You  turned  away 
from  me  ?  Answer  !  Answer  ! ! 

Is  there  no  one  else  about  ?  No  one  else  in  trouble  like  mine  ? 
No  company  for  me  ?  But  others  have  died.  Where  are 


"BEYOND 


they?  Has  each  one  had  to  go  through  this  alone?  is- 
this  to  be  the  experience  of  every  one  ?  Or  have  You 
singled  me  out  for  the  torture  of  eternal  solitude  ?  Have 
I  offended  You  so  deeply  that  You  will  not  even  listen  ? 
Have  I  transgressed  beyond  forgiveness?  Is  it  possible 
You  cannot  read  my  soul  and  are  judging  my  life  from  the 
surface  as  the  world  saw  it,  that  You  are  not  omniscient 
enough  to  go  below  the  surface  and  know  me  as  I  really 
am  ?  Silence  !  Silence  ! ! 

(Hysterically)  What  do  You  want  of  me  ?  Does  it  amuse 
You  to  see  me  suffer?  Or  are  You  jealous  of  my  will? 
Do  You  demand  abject  submission  ?  Must  I  give  in  and 
bend  the  knee  to  You?  Must  I  humiliate  myself  and 
implore  the  mercy  You  should  extend  unasked  if  You 
are  as  they  say  You  are,  powerful  enough  to  be  everywhere 
and  see  everything  always?  Even  though  You  may 
know  my  life  like  an  open  page,  does  it  amuse  You  to  have 
me  suffer  it  again  in  the  telling  ?  Is  my  life  history  a  story 
to  You  ?  Does  it  give  You  pleasure  to  discipline  me  ? 
Must  I  throw  myself  before  You  in  despair  to  give  You 
the  chance  to  appear  noble  and  raise  me  in  mercy?  Or 
are  You  angry  because  I  question  You !  Answer  !  Just 
one  word!  !  I  am  Your  slave!  !  !  (Throws  herself 
upon  her  knees) 
I  yield,  conquered  !  Beaten  ! 

It  is  true,  I  sinned  !  The  unpardonable  —  for  a  woman  — 
The  world  condemned,  made  me  endure  its  averted  gaze. 
My  husband  would  not  give  me  legal  freedom;  I  could 
not,  would  not  renounce  my  lover.  My  crime  was  in 
fidelity.  A  certain  kind  of  punishment  must  be  listed 
for  that.  I  plead  guilty  and  await  punishment.  (Pauses) 
Still  You  do  not  answer  ! !  Are  You  not  satisfied  to  see  me 
willing  to  accept  Your  punishment  ?  —  What  more  do 
You  want?  (Pauses) 

Would  you  have  me  say  I  am  sorry  I  loved  him  ?  Say  I 
am  sorry?  (Gives  way  to  tremendous  emotion)  Do  not 
ask  it  of  me !  I  cannot  say  it ! !  It  would  only  be  a  lie ! 


118  "BEYOND" 


I  am  not  sorry !  Oh,  God,  punish  me,  but  do  not  expect 
me  to  regret !  Hear  me ;  and  understand  ! 
My  father  was  good,  but  it  often  seemed  as  if  You  were 
against  him  !  In  despair  he  killed  himself !  I  hope  You 
were  kind  to  him  when  he  passed  this  way.  What  did  You 
do  to  him?  (Pauses)  Mother  had  too  many  children. 
The  last  one  killed  her.  I  hope  You  rewarded  her  here 
for  all  her  hardship  there.  I  was  the  eldest,  had  to  sup 
port  them  —  came  home  —  so  tired  —  spent  the  night 
helping  them  make  flowers  they  sold.  Their  little  thin 
faces,  their  patient  little  hands,  the  tears  that  came  and 
the  laughter  that  never  did  —  Oh,  God,  why  do  You  rob 
children  of  their  childhood  ?  I  could  not  bear  it !  I  had 
a  chance  to  marry  for  money.  I  sacrificed  myself  for  them  ! 
Do  You  not  praise  us  for  sacrificing  ourselves  for  others  ? 
The  world  called  the  marriage  legal ;  it  was  hallowed  by 
Your  church !  But  if  You  think  it  made  me  honorable 
and  good,  I  know  in  my  soul  You  are  wrong !  My  great 
est  sin  was  then  when  I  was  not  true  to  myself ! !  (Pauses) 
I  hated  him  !  He  was  old,  hard,  chose  me  because  I  was 
poor  and  in  his  power.  Every  penny  he  gave  had  to  be 
earned  in  service.  I  conscientiously  kept  the  bargain, 
even  though  my  heart  was  black  with  ever-increasing 
hatred  toward  the  world  and  him  and  You !  Yes,  my 
hatred  for  him  made  me  doubt  You  —  all  Your  handiwork  ! 
And  I  counted  up  against  You  all  I  had  to  endure,  and 
then  —  my  lover  came. 

I  fled  to  the  arms  of  him  who  sits  now  by  the  white,  cold 
shell  of  me,  weeping.  He  weeps  because  he  thinks  he  has 
lost  me ;  perhaps,  because  he  feels  I  am  in  anguish  here  — 
but  he  need  not  weep  for  loss  of  love ;  my  love  will  never 
cease !  My  love  for  him  is  part  of  You  —  and  You  are 
eternal!!  (Moves  left  almost  imperceptibly) 
Through  him  I  lost  the  blackness  of  my  heart  and  saw  the 
wonder  of  Your  purple  mountains,  blue-green  seas,  and 
even  the  beauty  of  Your  mighty  storms,  sweeping  rains, 
and  icy  frosts  —  and  I  loved  because  of  him  all  the  crea- 


"BEYOND"  119 


tures  You  have  made  and  all  Your  trees  and  all  Your 
flowers  and  even  all  the  weeds .     Although  the  world  pointed    , 
a  finger  at  me,  I  bore  with  dignity  and  without  complaint, 
knowing  that  my  heart  was  whiter  because  of  love.)^  _ 
My  Love  and  I,  walking  hand  in  hand,  heard  the  birds  in\ 
Your  forest  and  through  them  the  voice  of  You.     We  j 
stood  on  hill  crests,  awed  by  the  beauty  of  Your  landscapes,  ; 
and,  moved  by  the  marvelous  colors,  worshiped  the  artist 
in  You.     We  saw  the  mists  of  evening  hover  over  moun 
tain  peaks  and  fancied  they  were  veils  hiding  You.     But 
WE  KNEW  YOU  WERE  THERE !     And  our  love  rose 
as  one  love  to  YOU  !    !    ! 

Is  a  love  that  brings  consciousness  of  You  a  sin  ?  Was  my 
love  for  him  a  sin  ?  Was  not  rather  that  other  relation 
ship,  the  real  sin  against  You  because  through  it  I  lost  You  ? 
Will  You  judge  as  the  world  judges  ?  Is  Your  silence  and 
this  solitude  a  place  for  my  soul  to  battle  for  itself  ? 
Still — You  do  not  answer  and  see — how  far  I've  come! 
I  did  not  know  I  was  moving  nearer  to  You —  but  I  have  ! 
How  much  farther  must  I  come  ?  Then  will  You  answer 
me? 

(With  triumphant  conviction  and  faith)  You  cannot  deny  me ! 
In  my  idea  of  God  there  is  Justice  ! !  To  plead  for  mercy 
and  to  implore  forgiveness  is  to  confess  a  God  that  can  be 
swayed!  $ty  God  needs  no  finite  aid  in  judgment!  If 
You  are  at  all,  You  are  supreme !  (By  this  time  she  has 
reached  the  height  at  left)  Punish  !  If  you  think  You  must 
-  but  I  come  to  You  with  love  and  expectant  of  Justice  ! ! 
[As  she  goes  of  left  a  glow  of  light  illumines  her  face. 

CURTAIN 


A  GOOD  WOMAN 

GEORGE  MIDDLETON 

MR.  GEORGE  MIDDLETON  was  born  in  Paterson,  New 
Jersey,  on  October  27,  1880.  He  received  his  Bachelor's 
degree  at  Columbia  University  in  1902.  Since  1912  he  has 
been  literary  editor  of  LaFollette's  Weekly  and,  in  addition, 
has  been  a  frequent  contributor  to  magazines  and  reviews 
on  dramatic  and  literary  subjects. 

He  has  published  three  collections  of  one-act  plays,  "Em 
bers"  (which  includes  "The  Failures",  "The  Gargoyle", 
"In  His  House",  "Madonna",  and  "The  Man  Masterful") ; 
"Tradition"  (which  includes  "On  Bail",  "Their  Wife", 
"Waiting",  "The  Cheat  of  Pity",  and  "Mothers");  and 
"Possession"  (which  includes  "The  Groove",  "A  Good 
Woman",  "The  Black  Tie",  "Circles",  "The  Unborn"). 
Several  of  his  one-act  plays  have  appeared  in  single  form  : 
"Criminals",  a  play  about  marriage,  "Back  of  the  Ballot", 
a  woman  suffrage  farce,  and  "The  Reason",  which  ap 
peared  in  a  magazine.  His  longer  published  plays  are 
"Nowadays"  and  "The  Road  Together." 

"Embers"  was  one  of  the  first  collections  of  one-act  plays 
to  be  written  and  published  by  an  American.  In  fact,  Mr. 
Middleton  has  been  a  pioneer  in  advocating  the  serious  con 
sideration  of  the  printed  play.  He  has  lectured  widely  on 
"The  One- Act  Play  in  America  and  Abroad"  before  many 
colleges,  Little  Theatres,  and  clubs,  and  has  written  several 
interesting  magazine  articles  on  the  subject.  Perhaps  the 
most  notable  is  "The  Neglected  One- Act  Play",  which  was 
published  in  The  New  York  Dramatic  Mirror  in  1912. 


122  A  GOOD  WOMAN 

Mr.  Middleton  is  not  a  closet  dramatist,  however.  His 
acted  plays  are  even  more  numerous  than  those  which  have 
been  published.  He  has  written,  in  collaboration,  "The 
Cavalier",  "The  Sinner",  "Hit  the  Trail  Holliday",  "Polly 
with  a  Past",  "  Through  the  Ages  ",  and  is  the  sole  author  of 
"The  Wife's  Strategy",  "The  House  of  a  Thousand 
Candles",  "Rosalind  at  Red-gate",  "The  Enemy",  "Adam 
and  Eva  ",  "  Back  to  Nature  ",  "  The  Cave  Lady  ",  and  "  The 
Prodigal  Judge",  all  of  which  have  been  produced  profes 
sionally  throughout  the  United  States. 


A  GOOD   WOMAN 


BY  GEORGE   MIDDLETON 


"A  Good  Woman"  was  originally  produced  by  the  North 
ampton  Municipal  Theatre  Company  at  the  private  theatre 
in  the  home  of  Mr.  George  B.  McCallum,  Northampton, 
Massachusetts,  January  6,  1916. 

Original  Cast 

CORA  WARREN Gertrude  Workman 

HAL  MERRILL William  H.  Powell 


COPYRIGHT,  1915,  BY  HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY. 
All  rights  reserved. 

Reprinted  from  "Possession  and  Other  One-Act  Plays"  by  permission  of  and  by 
special  arrangement  with  Mr.  George  Middleton  and  Henry  Holt  and  Company. 

Application  for  the  right  of  performing  "A  Good  Woman"  must  be  made  to  Sam 
uel  French  and  Company,  28-30  West  38th  Street,  New  York  City. 


A  GOOD  WOMAN 

SCENE  :  At  Cora  Warren's  flat.  A  large  city  in  New  York 
State.  Late  one  winter  evening. 

A  small  room  in  what  is  a  modest  but  comfortable  flat,  up 
several  flights  of  stairs.  In  back,  a  door  opens  on  the  landing. 
A  snow-lined  window  may  be  seen  at  the  right  through  the  pretty 
lace  curtains.  Opposite  this  a  door  leads  off  into  the  other  rooms. 
The  furnishings  are  simple  but  adequate;  wicker  chairs,  a 
couch,  a  small  table,  carefully  selected  pictures,  some  book 
shelves,  and  a  large  warm  rug  upon  the  hardwood  floor  are  con 
spicuous.  A  house  telephone  is  on  the  left  wall  near  the  door. 
There  is  something  seclusive,  personal,  and  intimate  about  the 
little  room,  softly  lighted  by  several  shaded  wicker -lamps  which 
blend  in  color  with  the  one-toned  patternless  wall-paper. 

Outside  the  wind  is  heard  howling  as  it  drives  the  snow  and 
sleet  against  the  window.  After  some  moments,  a  bell  is  heard. 
Cora  Warren  enters  quickly  and  opens  the  outer  door,  ad 
mitting  Hal  Merrill.  She  closes  the  door  and  kisses  him. 

Cora  Warren  is  a  woman  of  thirty,  full  of  rich  feeling, 
sensitive,  impulsive,  yet  withal  clear-visioned  and  courageous. 
There  is  every  mark  of  refinement,  culture,  and  distinction  in 
speech,  with  nothing  exotic  or  abnormal  in  her  manner.  She 
is  in  a  pretty  negligee. 

Hal  Merrill  is  older,  beginning  to  settle,  in  fact,  but  full 
of  mental  and  physical  vigor,  in  spite  of  features  which,  when 
relaxed,  betray  a  certain  careworn  expression.  He,  too,  is  evi 
dently  well-born,  and  has  had,  no  doubt,  many  advantages.  His 
heavy  overcoat,  rubbers,  and  soft  felt  hat  are  wet  with  the  snow. 
CORA.  I'm  so  glad  you've  come.  Why,  you're  all  wet. 
HAL  (taking  off  his  overcoat) .  I  walked  uptown. 


126  A  GOOD  WOMAN 

CORA  (playfully  admonishing  him  throughout) .  In  this  storm  ? 
And  you  knew  I  was  waiting  ? 

HAL.     You  are  always  waiting. 

CORA.  You'll  get  your  death,  dear.  Give  me  the  coat. 
I'll  hang  it  over  a  chair  before  the  gas  stove.  And  your 
feet  —  my  —  my  !  Soaked  ? 

HAL.     No,  rubbers. 

CORA.     So  you  did  mind  me  and  wear  them. 

HAL.     Yes. 

[Kicking  them  off. 

CORA.  You  must  take  more  care  of  yourself.  What  would 
I  do  if  you  were  ill  ?  You  should  have  ridden. 

HAL.  It  clears  your  thoughts  to  walk  with  the  snow  beat 
ing  in  your  face. 

CORA  (detecting  a  hidden  meaning) .     Hal  ? 

HAL.     It's  good  to  be  here  with  you  again,  Cora. 

CORA  (cheerfully  again).  Yes  :  it's  been  so  long  since  yester 
day.  (They  laugh)  Now  sit  down  and  rest.  I've  a  hot 
toddy  all  ready  for  you. 

HAL.     Just  what  I  wanted. 

CORA.  Here's  your  pipe  —  old  and  strong  as  ever.  Did  you 
forget  the  tobacco  ? 

HAL.  No.  (Taking  the  pipe)  You  always  make  it  seem 
like  home,  dearest. 

CORA  (hurt).     "Seem?" 

HAL  (holding  her  hand  during  a  slight  pause).  You  know 
what  I  mean. 

CORA  (as  she  strikes  a  match  and  lights  the  pipe  which  he  has 
filled).  How  worn  and  tired  you  are,  dear.  I'll  be  glad 
when  this  lawsuit  is  over.  Just  relax.  Let  go.  (She  kisses 
him)  Dearest.  (Cora  takes  up  the  coat  and  rubbers,  going 
out  quickly  in  back.  Hal  stops  smoking,  the  smile  disap 
pears,  and  his  head  lowers,  as  he  seems  overcome  with  the 
mood  he  has  been  trying  to  fight  back.  Cora  comes  in  unob 
served  with  the  toddy.  She  looks  at  him,  shakes  her  head  and 
then  comes,  placing  her  hand  on  his  arm.  He  starts  up  from 
his  reverie)  What  is  it,  Hal  ? 


A  GOOD   WOMAN  127 

HAL.     Nothing. 

CORA  (not  believing  him).     Take  this,  dear. 

HAL.     Thanks.     (He  sips  it)     Um !    it's  hot,   Cora.     Just 

the  right  amount  of  sugar,  too.     (Cora  watches  him  question- 

ingly  as  he  sips  it  slowly.     She  picks  up  a  couple  of  sofa 

cushions  and  comes  over  to  him,  placing  them  by  him,  on  the 

floor.     She  sits  on  them,  waiting  for  him  to  speak)     That 

tastes  good. 

CORA.     You're  sure  you  didn't  get  chilled  ? 
HAL.     I  walked  rapidly. 

CORA.     Did  anything  go  wrong  with  the  case  ? 
HAL  (patting  her).     What  makes  you  think  that? 
CORA.     Something's  worrying  you. 
HAL.     Something  did  :  but  it's  all  settled  now. 
CORA.     So  that's  why  you  walked  in  the  storm? 
HAL.     Yes. 
CORA.     I'm  glad  it's  settled;    only  I  should  like  to  have 

helped  settle  it. 
HAL.     Cora  ? 

CORA  (she  turns  and  looks  up  into  his  face) .     Yes  ? 
HAL.    I  wonder  how  great  a  test  your  love  for  me  would  stand  ? 
CORA.     Could  I  have  given  more  ? 
HAL.     There  is  something  more  I  must  ask. 
CORA  (puzzled).     Something  more?     Tell  me,  Hal. 
HAL  (holding  her  head  between  his  hands) .     Is  your  love  strong 

enough  to  accept  a  silence? 
CORA.     Aren't  there  silent  places  in  every  love  ? 
HAL  (with  some  slight  hesitation).     I  mean  if  —  if  I  should  do 

something  which  I  thought  best  not  to  explain. 
CORA  (simply).     I  should  accept  everything  so  long  as  you 

were  honest  with  me.     Only  — 
HAL.     Only  what,  dear  ? 

CORA  (thoughtfully).     Silence  itself  is  not  always  honest. 
HAL.     In  this  particular  matter  will  you  let  me  be  the  judge 

of  that  ? 

CORA.     A  woman  in  my  position  must  accept. 
HAL.     Cora ! 


128  A  GOOD  WOMAN 

CORA  (quickly).  Oh,  I  didn't  mean  that,  Hal ;  that  was  un 
worthy  of  me.  * 

HAL     You  know  how  I  love  you. 

CORA.  Yes,  yes,  dear.  Of  course  I  know.  I  am  ashamed  of 
nothing.  I'm  proud  of  all  we  have  here  in  the  quiet.  But 
the  snow  beating  against  the  window  has  been  reminding 
me  all  day  of  the  world  outside. 

HAL.     The  snow  is  so  free  ! 

CORA.  Yep ;  and  you  and  I  are  bound  by  secrecy.  That's 
what  hurts ;  the  secrecy. 

HAL  (stroking  her  hair).     If  you  could  only  be  my  wife. 

CORA  (smiling).  Just  for  the  freedom  it  would  give  me  to 
share  everything  in  the  open  with  you.  That's  all.  Just 
for  the  freedom  we  can't  have  now. 

HAL.  But,  Cora,  even  in  marriage  itself  only  the  happy  are 
free. 

CORA  (intimating  a  hidden  thought).  I  suppose  the  most  dif 
ficult  thing  for  some  people  is  to  give  freedom.  (He  nods 
in  understanding)  Poor  Hal !  How  you  have  suffered,  too, 
with  this  tangle  we  are  in.  (The  'phone  rings.  They  are 
surprised)  Who  could  that  be? 

HAL  (nervously).     No  one  knows  your  number? 

CORA.     No. 

[The  ring  is  repeated. 

HAL  (dismissing  it).  Central's  made  a  mistake.  Don't 
answer  it. 

CORA.  Everything  startles  me  so  these  days.  (Dismissing 
it  too)  Have  another  toddy  ? 

HAL.     Not  now. 

CORA.  Tell  me  about  the  case.  Is  "Boss"  McQuinn  still 
going  to  take  his  libel  suit  into  court  ? 

HAL.     It's  called  for  to-morrow  at  ten. 

CORA  (pleased) .  To-morrow !  It's  come  at  last,  then,  after 
all  your  months  of  work.  To-morrow.  (With  a  sigh) 
And  I  can't  be  there  in  court  to  hear  you  when  you  testify, 
or  to  follow,  in  the  open,  each  step  we've  talked  over  here. 
That's  where  my  position  hurts. 


A  GOOD  WOMAN  129 

HAL  (with  apparent  difficulty  throughout).     Perhaps  I  sha'n't 

take  the  stand  against  McQuinn,  after  all. 
CORA.     You  mean  it  won't  be  necessary  ? 
HAL.     Not  exactly  that. 
CORA.     But  what  you  wrote  about  McQuinn  in  the  Monthly 


HAL.     Every  word  of  my  exposure  was  true. 
CORA.     But  youVe  said  so  often  the  whole  defense  of  the 
magazine  in  McQuinn's  libel  suit  against  it  rests  on  your 
testimony  alone. 
HAL.     Yes,  yes. 
CORA  (disappointed).     I  see.     You  mean  the  Monthly  has 

decided  to  retract? 
HAL.     No. 
CORA  (not  quite  grasping  the  significance).     Is  this  why  you 

walked  with  the  snow  beating  in  your  face  ? 
HAL  (with  feeling).     This  is  the  silent  place  !     I'm  not  going 
to  testify  in  this  suit,  after  all.     Please  don't  question  me 
about  it,  dear. 

CORA  (startled).     Not  going  to  testify  ? 
HAL  (earnestly).     Just  trust  me,  Cora;   and  let  me  be  silent 

as  to  the  reason. 

CORA  (restraining  her  instinctive  impulse  to  question  and  plac 
ing  her  hands  on  his  shoulders).  Whatever  is  the  reason, 
I  know  you  must  have  suffered.  It  is  not  like  you  to  give 
up.  (He  lowers  his  eyes)  You've  never  asked  anything 
greater  of  me  than  this  silence. 

HAL  (deeply  moved).  Perhaps  I've  never  given  anything 
greater,  Cora. 

[The  'phone  rings  again  :  they  look  toward  it. 
CORA  (slowly).     Did  you  give  our  number  to  any  one? 
HAL  (nervously).     No. 

[It  rings  again. 

CORA.  Nobody  ever  rings  here  but  you.  (She  goes  appre 
hensively  to  the  'phone  in  spite  of  his  movement  to  restrain  her) 
Yes,  this  is  Cora  Warren.  .  .  .  Who?.  .  .  Mr.  McQuinn  ! 
(They  look  at  each  other.  She  quickly  controls  herself  and 


130  A   GOOD   WOMAN 

speaks  casually)  Mr.  Merrill  ?  .  .  .  You're  mistaken  — 
why  should  he  be  here  ?  .  .  .  There's  no  need  of  ringing 
me  up  later.  (She  hangs  up  the  receiver)  He  laughed, 
Hal.  He  laughed  I  (She  goes  to  him)  He  has  found  out 
about  you  and  me  ! ! 

HAL.     No,  no. 

CORA  (shaken).    That's  what  it  is.    It  was  the  way  he  laughed  ! 

HAL  (confused).     Nonsense. 

CORA  (slowly  grasping  the  situation).  For  months  you've 
told  me  McQuinn  has  been  fighting  for  his  political  life, 
desperate  over  your  exposures.  He's  been  doing  every 
thing  to  "get"  your  witnesses  —  to  "get"  something  on 
you.  Why,  he  offered  you  money  —  enough  to  make  you 
independent  for  life.  You  refused  all  that;  but,  now, 
you're  going  to  do  what  he  wants. 

HAL.     I'm  doing  what  I  want,  I  tell  you ;  what  /  want. 

CORA.  That's  not  so.  This  investigation  has  been  your 
absorbing  passion  for  months.  You've  seen  what  it  means 
to  the  hundreds  of  women  and  children  who  have  suffered 
by  his  exploitations.  He's  got  something  on  you,  some 
thing  you  had  to  give  in  to. 

HAL.     No,  no ! 

CORA.  It's  you  and  me,  Hal.  You  ask  silence  of  me  because 
you  didn't  want  to  hurt  me.  It's  you  and  me ;  you  and 
me. 

HAL.     No,  no ! 

CORA,  (slowly).  Hal,  it  is  that.  Answer  me,  boy.  It  is  that 
—  isn't  it? 

HAL  (admitting  it,  after  a  futile  denial).  And  I  didn't  want 
you  to  know. 

CORA.  He  threatened  to  tell  about  our  relations  together  if 
you  testified  against  him  ? 

HAL.     Yes  :   the  blackguard. 

CORA  (moved) .     And  you  love  me  more  than  — 

HAL  (tenderly).  I  only  did  what  any  man  would.  (She 
lowers  her  head)  Dearest,  don't  take  it  so  hard.  I'm  glad 
•a  chance  came  to  show  you  how  I  loved  you. 


A  GOOD   WOMAN  131 

CORA.  I  knew  without  this  proof,  Hal ;  I  knew.  [She 
sits  with  her  face  buried  in  her  hands.  He  stands  beside 
her. 

HAL.  McQuinn  met  me  to-night,  on  the  street,  alone.  He 
said  he  knew  about  our  three  years  —  our  summer  abroad 
-  this  place  —  all.  He  said  he  hated  to  hit  a  woman,  but 
he  knew  he  was  beaten  and  had  to  use  any  weapon  he  could 
find.  All  he  asked  of  me  was  silence  and  he  would  give  the 
same  about  us  —  or  for  me  to  forget  a  bit  on  the  stand  or 
muddle  my  testimony.  Of  course,  I  saw  what  it  would 
mean  to  the  case :  but  it  was  the  only  way  to  save  you. 
(He  shrugs  his  shoulders)  He  must  have  guessed  I'd  come 
straight  to  you.  He  has  ways  of  finding  out  'phone 
numbers.  I  suppose  he  wanted  to  frighten  you  and  thus 
make  sure  I  wouldn't  change  my  mind. 

CORA  (slowly).     Did  he  mention  your  wife? 

HAL.     Yes. 

CORA  (desperately).  Did  you  tell  him  you  and  she  had  been 
separated  before  you  met  me  ?  That  she  didn't  love  you, 
that  she  hated  you,  yet  clung  to  your  name  because  she 
knew  you  wanted  freedom  to  marry  me  ?  Did  you  tell 
him  she  wouldn't  give  you  that  freedom,  because  of  a 
few  words  mumbled  over  her  by  an  official,  and  because 
she  said  she  was  "a  good  woman"? 

HAL.  I  did  not  discuss  the  matter.  It  was  my  wife  who 
told  him  about  us. 

CORA.     Your  wife ! 

HAL.     Yes.     That  act  describes  her,  doesn't  it  ? 

CORA  (bitterly) .  And  the  law  gives  a  woman  like  that  the  right 
to  keep  you  —  a  woman  whose  body  is  dry  and  her  love 
cold  —  and  it  discards  me  who  —  oh  ! 

HAL  (sarcastically).  It  was  my  wife's  way  of  disentangling 
me.  She  thought  I'd  rather  give  you  up  than  this  case. 
She  thought  I'd  sacrifice  you.  But  she  didn't  know  me : 
she  never  knew  me. 

CORA.     And  she  knew  me  ! 

HAL.     It's  done.     Now  we  must  forget  and  go  on.  • 


132  A  GOOD  WOMAN 

CORA(  gazing  dully  before  her) .  What  are  you  going  to  do  now  ? 

HAL.     That's  what  we  must  think  of. 

CORA.     It  will  mean  you  will  have  to  leave  the  Monthly. 

HAL.  Yes.  They're  tired  of  the  suit,  anyway.  Their  ad 
vertising  has  fallen  off.  (Putting  his  arm  about  her)  We 
have  each  other. 

CORA  (ominously).  And  always  we'd  fear  McQuinn  knocking 
at  our  door. 

HAL  (trying  to  cheer  her) .  Nonsense,  dear.  He'll  never  bother 
to  come  up  our  stairs. 

CORA.  How  we  women  hamper  you  men.  (He  protests) 
Yes,  we  do.  Your  wife's  "respectability"  —  and  my  — 

HAL.     Hush,  dear.     It's  not  our  fault. 

CORA.  That  we  love?  No.  But  because  we've  spoken  the 
whole  language  of  love  the  world  blames  us.  (With  grow 
ing  emotion)  If  I'd  kept  my  love  hidden,  worn  myself 
sapless,  wasted  without  expression,  then  I'd  have  been  "a 
good  woman"  !  If  I'd  seen  you  casually,  or  if  I'd  let  you 
come  near  me,  with  the  flames  smoldering,  burning  us  both 
inside  so  that  there  was  nothing  in  our  thoughts  but  fire ; 
nothing  of  comradeship  and  beauty  that  we  now  have  — 
then  I'd  still  have  been  "a  good  woman."  But  because  I 
let  you  see  my  love,  because  I  wasn't  a  contemptible  tease, 
because  I  knew  all  things  were  equally  important  in  love, 
because  I  gave  myself  to  you,  I'm  not  "a  good  woman"  ! 
[She  laughs  ironically. 

HAL.     We  live  in  the  world,  dear. 

CORA.  And  we  must  go  on  living.  (With  a  quick  resolution) 
But  there  is  no  need  of  our  being  cowards  ! 

HAL.     Cowards ! 

CORA.  Yes.  Up  to  now,  Hal,  as  I  see  it,  we  have  not  been 
that.  We  did  what  we  believed  was  right,  no  matter  what 
others  may  say.  But  now  you  and  I  are  thinking  of  doing 
what  we  know  is  wrong ;  and  that  is  the  test  of  our  courage. 

TTAT..     You  mean  ? 

CORA.     That  now  we're  asking  somebody  else  to  pay  the 

»  price :   the  hundreds  of  women  and  children  in  this  city 


A   GOOD   WOMAN  133 

whom  McQuinn  would  still  go  on  exploiting  if  you  did  not 
go  on  the  stand  and  drive  him  out  of  power. 

HAL  (losing  momentary  control).  It's  true;  it's  true.  But 
how  could  I  ask  that  of  you? 

CORA.     Why  not? 

HAL.  No,  no.  We  must  think  of  ourselves  now  —  our 
selves. 

CORA  (putting  her  hand  on  his  arm).  You  and  I  cannot  do 
as  many  others.  We've  got  to  keep  right,  in  each  other's 
eyes,  or  the  world  will  beat  us. 

HAL.     I've  done  the  hardest  thing  for  you  I  could,  Cora. 

CORA.  It's  not  always  easy  to  be  a  coward,  Hal.  And  that's 
what  I'd  also  be  if  I  accepted.  Somebody  else  would  be 
paying.  Somebody  else.  That  can  never  be  right. 
(She  bows  her  head.  There  is  a  long  pause.  He  rises,  goes 
to  the  window,  then  paces  up  and  down.  The  snow  is  heard 
freely  beating  against  the  pane.  Her  mind  slowly  gains  con 
trol  of  her  emotions  and  she  looks  up  at  him)  Hal  ? 

HAL.     Yes. 

CORA.  If  you  went  on  the  stand  to-morrow  and  told  the 
truth  about  McQuinn,  would  your  relations  with  me  hurt 
your  statement  about  him? 

HAL  (bitterly).  No.  It's  only  a  woman  whose  sex  morals 
can  be  taken  that  advantage  of  in  our  courts. 

CORA  (with  determination).     Then  you  must  tell  the  truth. 

HAL  (desperately) .     And  have  you  hurt  ?     Never  ! 

CORA.  I  would  be  hurt  far  worse  if  you  did  not  love  me 
enough  to  do  what  I  ask. 

HAL.    Cora!    (Comes  to  her)    You  don't  realize  what  it  means. 

CORA  (calmly).  I  realize  that  your  public  usefulness  would 
be  destroyed  because  you  wished  to  protect  my  reputation. 
What  people  think  of  me  matters  little  now. 

HAL.     What  people  think  of  you  means  everything  to  me. 

CORA.     You  fear  to  have  them  think  me  a  bad  woman  ? 

HAL.     Cora ! 

CORA.  Then  what  difference  what  they  think  so  long  as  we 
understand  each  other  ? 


134  A   GOOD  WOMAN 

HAL.  They'd  forgive  a  man.  But  you're  a  woman.  They'd 
never  forgive  you  —  never. 

CORA.     Nothing  will  be  harder  than  cowardice. 

HAL  (going  to  her).  I  can't  do  this  —  I  can't.  They'd  think 
me  a  cad  to  sacrifice  you  like  this. 

CORA.  That  thought  has  made  liars  and  cowards  of  many 
men ! 

HAL.  We  mustn't  be  foolish.  There's  nothing  greater  in 
life  than  what  two  people  feel  for  each  other. 

CORA  (desperately).  That's  why  I  am  asking  this  of  you. 
Don't  make  it  harder  for  me  —  don't ! 

HAL.  You  are  thinking  of  those  out  in  the  city ;  I  am  think 
ing  only  of  you. 

CORA.     But  you  mustn't. 

HAL.     You're  worth  more  to  me  than  all  of  them. 

CORA.     But  you  must  think  of  the  people. 

HAL.  The  people?  That  mob  any  fool  can  lead  with  a 
few  catch  phrases?  That  ignorant  mass  that  cheers  one 
day  and  crucifies  the  next?  What  do  they  really  give 
anybody?  I'll  tell  you.  Nothing  but  ingratitude  and 
scars  while  you  live  with  immortelles  and  a  monument 
when  you're  dead.  Why  should  I  sacrifice  you  for  them  ? 

CORA.     Hal !     You  don't  know  them  — 

HAL.  Oh,  yes,  I  do.  They  can't  sustain  their  moral  at 
titudes.  It's  all  a  periodic  fit  with  them.  They  shout  a 
lot  while  the  brass  band  plays  and  they  cheer  any  fool  in 
the  red  light.  Then  they  settle  back  into  their  old  self- 
righteousness  while  the  McQuinns  are  always  on  the 
job. 

CORA.  You're  unjust.  You  don't  know  what  you're  saying. 
It's  because  they  are  ignorant  that  strong  leaders  like  you 
should  go  to  them.  (He  laughs)  You  must  not  forget 
those  others  who  are  working  with  you  against  McQuinn. 

HAL.  The  Reformers?  Huh.  I  know  them,  too.  I'm 
sick  to  death  of  political  reforms  and  reformers  who  plant 
together  but  reap  their  fruits  separately. 

CORA  (trying  to  stop  him).    They're  human  and  — 


A  GOOD  WOMAN  136 

HAL.  Yes ;  that's  it.  Damn  human !  Why,  even  now 
they're  squabbling  over  who  shall  run  for  Mayor  once  they 
put  McQuinn  out  of  power.  They're  fighting,  just  like 
the  grafters,  with  all  the  same  petty  jealous  personalities. 
Reformers  !  Would  they  put  you  on  their  visiting  list  even 
if  they  knew  you  sacrificed  your  reputation  for  them? 
With  all  their  political  morality  do  you  think  they'd  dare 
go  against  public  opinion  on  private  morals  ?  No  !  They 
couldn't  run  for  office  themselves  if  they  did.  They'd 
think  you  unclean  — 

CORA.     No,  no ! 

HAL.  Yes :  just  as  they  think  McQuinn  unclean.  They'd 
accept  your  sacrifice.  But  they'd  use  it  as  they  use 
their  causes  :  to  ride  into  power  themselves.  Reformers  ! 
I  sha'n't  sacrifice  you  for  them.  What  do  they  care  for 
you  and  me  ? 

CORA.     But  it's  not  a  sacrifice  to  do  what  is  right. 

HAL.  Others  will  try  to  do  what  I  have  failed  in.  There 
are  always  plenty  of  reformers.  I  don't  want  the  glory. 
I've  seen  the  graves  of  martyrs.  No,  no.  I'll  go  through 
with  what  McQuinn  demands  just  because  it's  you  and 
me  who  matter  —  you  and  me. 

CORA.  With  McQuinn  always  waiting  at  the  door.  (The 
'phone  rings  sharply  again)  You  see  ? 

HAL.     Damn  him  !     Why  doesn't  he  leave  us  alone  ? 

CORA.     We'll  never  be  alone  again. 

HAL.     I'll  fix  him. 

CORA  (with  calm  strength).  He  must  be  answered  now  as 
well  as  later. 

HAL  (as  she  starts  to  the  'phone).     You  sha'n't  do  this. 

CORA.     I'll  not  let  your  work  be  ruined  by  my  cowardice. 

HAL.     I  tell  you  I'm  through  with  that  work. 

CORA.  But  you're  not  through  with  my  love !  It's  my 
love  speaking  now  for  our  love,  which  I  must  keep  clean  in 
my  own  eyes.  Our  love  which  the  law  punishes  by  deny 
ing  it  freedom  to  live  in  the  open  !  Our  love  which  keeps 
me  from  being  "a  good  woman"  -  like  your  wife  !  (She 


136  A  GOOD  WOMAN 

goes  to  the  'phone.  Hal,  seeing  the  futility  of  further  words, 
sinks  back  into  his  chair  overcome  by  what  the  future  holds) 
Yes.  This  is  Cora  Warren.  .  .  .  Who  wishes  to  talk 
to  Mr.  Merrill?  ...  Is  this  Mr.  McQuinn  talking? 
.  .  .  Mr.  McQuinn,  I'm  glad  you  rang  up.  .  .  .  I'm  fully 
acquainted  with  the  particulars  of  the  case.  .  .  .  Yes,  of 
course,  we're  going  to  be  sensible.  .  .  .  What  are  you 
going  to  do?  .  .  .  Thanks  for  putting  it  so  clearly.  I 
wanted  you  to  say  that  to  me  also.  We're  not  at  all 
anxious  to  have  this  story  come  out.  .  .  .  No.  But 
Mr.  Merrill  is  going  on  the  stand  to-morrow  to  tell  the 
truth.  .  .  .  Yes.  .  .  .  And  ...  if  the  story  is  subse 
quently  published  .  .  .  or  if  he  is  cross-examined  by  your 
lawyers  about  our  relations,  I  shall  go  on  the  stand,  pro 
duce  a  record  that  you  'phoned  me  twice,  and  corroborate 
his  statement  that  you  tried  to  blackmail  him  into  silence. 
.  .  .  You  are  quite  sure  you  understand  ?  .  .  .  You're 
sorry  for  me?.  .  .  Oh,  that's  all  right,  Mr.  McQuinn.  .  .  . 
What's  that?  (Her  voice  trails  off)  Yes,  I  know  I'm  "a 
hell  of  a  fine  woman."  (She  hangs  up  the  receiver  and  goes 
slowly  to  Hal)  You  did  what  you  thought  best  for  me. 
I  did  what  is  best  for  you. 

HAL  (holding  her  close  as  she  kneels  beside  him).  Poor  dear, 
brave  girl.  He'll  publish  it.  I  know  him.  And  then  — 
oh! 

CORA.  Yes,  dearest.  But  he  didn't  laugh  this  time  !  [There 
is  a  triumphant  smile  upon  her  face. 

The  curtain  falls. 


FUNICULI   FUNICULA 

RITA  WELLMAN 

Miss  RITA  WELLMAN  was  born  in  1890  in  Washington,  D.C. 
She  is  a  daughter  of  Walter  Wellman,  journalist  and  explorer. 
Miss  Wellman's  first  story  was  published  when  she  was  seven 
teen,  and  since  then  she  has  been  writing  stories  and  plays  con 
tinually.  Her  published  plays  are  "Barbarians",  "Funiculi 
Funicula",  and  "The  Lady  with  the  Mirror." 

Her  first  play  to  be  produced  was  a  sketch  for  vaudeville. 
"Barbarians",  given  first  by  The  Provincetown  Players, 
has  been  produced  by  many  of  the  Little  Theatres  in  this 
country.  All  of  her  published  plays  have  been  produced, 
and  in  addition  to  the  above,  Miss  Wellman  has  produced 
"The  Rib-Person"  and  "The  Gentile  Wife." 


FUNICULI  FUNICULA 


BY  RITA  WELLMAN 


Funiculi  Funicula  was  originally  produced  by  The  Province- 
town  Players,  139  MacDougall  Street,  New  York,  December, 
1918. 

Original  Cast 

DOCTOR  COLLINS        Ira  Remsen 

TADDEMA  TANNER James  Light 

ALMA  WILLYS Ida  Rau 

Produced  under  the  direction  of  Nina  Moise. 


COPYRIGHT,  1917,  BY  R.  Lao. 

All  rights  reserved. 

Application  for  the  right  of  performing  "  Funiculi  Funicula  "  must  be  made  to  Rita 
Wellman,  142  East  18th  Street,  New  York  City. 


FUNICULI    FUNICULA 

SCENE  :  Small  Washington  Square  apartment.  Has  started 
out  very  gaily.  Is  now  shabby  and  neglected.  There  is  about 
the  place  an  air  of  conquered  attitude.  Door  right  at  back  leads 
into  an  outer  hall  with  stairs  leading  up.  Door  left  on  Me 
wall  leads  into  a  back  room.  Bay  window  in  center.  This 
looks  out  into  a  court.  Couch  before  the  window  with  small 
table  near  by.  Settee  at  right.  Small  table  left  with  type 
writer,  etc.  Bookcases  right  and  left.  New  Art  paintings  on 
the  wall.  The  couch  is  now  covered  with  bed  clothes  and  shows 
that  some  one  has  recently  occupied  it.  The  covers  are  thrown 
back  at  one  end.  A  child's  bathrobe  lies  on  the  bed,  half  falling 
from  it.  On  the  small  table  near  the  couch  there  are  medicine 
bottles,  a  box  of  absorbent  cotton  and  other  medicinal  things. 
A  piece  of  blue  paper  torn  from  the  cotton  box  is  fixed  with  a 
hair  pin  to  the  lamp  which  stands  on  the  table.  The  room  is 
very  untidy.  There  are  toys  scattered  about,  and  many  of  the 
chairs  are  cluttered  with  clothing. 

It  is  about  seven-thirty  in  the  evening.  Alma  and  Doctor  Col 
lins  enter  together  from  the  bedroom.  Alma  is  beautiful. 
Nevertheless,  she  is  nervous  and  discontented  —  a  failure.  She 
wears  a  loose,  brilliantly  colored  smock.  Doctor  Collins  is 
what  he  calls  himself —  "a  plainsman."  He  feels  an  instinc 
tive  distrust  for  intellectual  and  artistic  people.  He  agrees  with 
Oscar  Wilde  that  "Nature  hates  Mind."  For  this  reason  he  is 
afraid  of  Alma  and  disapproves  of  her.  He  also  thinks  she  is 
beautiful. 
DOCTOR  COLLINS  (as  they  enter).  I  will  write  a  prescription 

for  you.     Please  have  it  filled  at  once. 


142  FUNICULI   FUNICULA 

ALMA.  But  I  sent  Mr.  Tanner  out  with  the  other  one  —  the 
one  you  gave  me  on  Monday.  Isn't  it  all  right  ? 

DOCTOR  COLLINS  (writing).  No.  I  want  her  to  have  this 
now  —  every  three  hours. 

ALMA.     Is  she  worse,  Doctor  Collins  ? 

DOCTOR  COLLINS.  She  hasn't  improved  as  I  had  hoped,  Miss 
Willys. 

ALMA  (walking  about  nervously,  attempting  listlessly  to  straighten 
the  room).  I'm  sure  I've  done  everything  you  told  me  to. 
I'm  sure  I've  tried  to  do  everything  for  her. 

DOCTOR  COLLINS  (handing  her  the  prescription).  Here — have 
this  filled  at  once.  You  can  continue  with  the  tablets  I 
gave  you  on  Monday  —  those  are  for  the  fever.  Her 
temperature  is  the  most  alarming  thing.  I  don't  see  why 
we  can't  get  it  down.  I  wish  you  had  called  me  before, 
Miss  Willys.  Why  did  you  let  it  go  so  long  ?  I  told  you 
on  Monday  that  I  wanted  to  see  her  again  if  there  was  any 
change. 

ALMA.  I  don't  know  why  I  didn't  call  you.  I  hate  getting 
excited  over  every  little  thing  —  I  suppose  that  was  the 
reason.  She  seemed  all  right.  She  was  quite  bright  until 
yesterday  morning.  Then  she  began  to  droop  and  com 
plain.  It's  very  hard  when  you're  all  alone. 

DOCTOR.     Isn't  Mr.  Tanner  here  to  help  you  ? 

ALMA.  He's  been  busy.  That  is  —  he's  been  working  at 
something,  anyway  —  I  don't  know  what  it  is  —  some 
club  thing  or  other.  He's  always  doing  something  of  the 
kind  —  for  charity.  Doesn't  it  seem  amusing  that  the 
people  who  never  earn  any  money  are  always  willing  to 
do  things  for  nothing  ? 

DOCTOR.  I  should  think  that  would  work  the  other  way  about 
-  that  the  people  who  are  willing  to  work  for  nothing  never 
make  anything. 

ALMA  (sitting).  You  can  get  along  very  nicely  without 
money  —  and  that  leaves  you  time  to  do  all  the  pleasant 
things.  And  you  never  get  paid  for  doing  anything 
pleasant. 


FUNICULI  FUNICULA  143 

DOCTOR.  I  am  too  plebeian  to  understand  you,  I  am  afraid. 
I  am  a  plain  man,  Miss  Willys. 

ALMA.     That  is  almost  a  boast,  Doctor  Collins. 

DOCTOR.  Miss  Willys,  I  am  going  to  be  frank  with  you, 
may  I  ? 

ALMA.  By  all  means,  Doctor  Collins.  Sit  down,  won't  you  ? 
I  am  afraid  it  isn't  very  clean.  I  have  a  woman  who 
comes  in  to  clean,  but  she  didn't  come  to-day.  Her  hus 
band  drinks.  Not  that  that  is  any  reason  why  she  shouldn't 
come.  (As  he  picks  up  a  chair  filled  with  clothing)  Oh, 
I'm  sorry.  Just  let  them  stay  there.  Here,  take  this 
chair. 

DOCTOR  (removing  the  articles).     This  will  be  all  right,  thank 
you. 
[Sits. 

ALMA.  I  suppose  you  are  accustomed  to  having  everything 
hygienic.  I  think  all  this  modern  excitement  over  the 
germ  must  have  its  bad  effect,  don't  you  ?  Think  of 
the  effect  on  the  germ.  I  mean  the  psychological  effect. 
There's  something  in  that.  But  you  doctors  never  realize 
these  things.  You're  simply  mathematicians. 

DOCTOR.  You  are  very  clever,  Miss  Willys,  and  I  am  a  very 
plain  man. 

ALMA  (annoyed).     Yes,  so  you  told  me. 

DOCTOR.  I  want  to  speak  to  you  seriously,  Miss  Willys. 
About  —  the  little  girl  in  there. 

ALMA.  I  know.  You  are  going  to  tell  me  what  a  bad  mother 
I  am.  I  know  I  am.  I  was  never  intended  to  be  a  mother. 
And  now  you  are  going  to  tell  me  that  all  women  were  in 
tended  to  be  mothers. 

DOCTOR.  No,  I  was  not  going  to  say  that  —  just  then. 
Miss  Willys,  is  Mr.  Tanner  your  husband  or  isn't  he  ? 

ALMA.     We're  not  married  —  if  that's  what  you  mean. 

DOCTOR.     But  he  is  the  father  of  that  little  girl  in  there  ? 

ALMA.     Yes,  he  is  Bambi's  father. 

DOCTOR  (who  hesitates  —  because  he  feels  ridiculous).  Just 
what  —  what  is  the  idea  ? 


144  FUNICULI  FUNICULA 

ALMA.  The  idea?  (Smiles)  You  mean  —  why  aren't  we 
properly  married? 

DOCTOR.     Yes,  exactly  —  why  aren't  you  properly  married  ? 

ALMA  (serious).  I  don't  know  why  we  didn't.  We  were 
afraid,  I  suppose. 

DOCTOR.     Afraid  to  be  properly  married? 

ALMA.  Yes.  It  seems  strange  to  you,  doesn't  it  ?  You  see 
all  people  aren't  alike.  Some  kinds  of  people  are  afraid 
to  do  what  every  one  disapproves  of  —  while  our  kind  — 
we're  afraid  to  do  the  things  every  one  approves  of.  I 
suppose  there  were  other  reasons  too  at  the  time  —  I 
know  it,  in  fact.  But  why  should  I  discuss  them  with 
you?  Being  married  or  not  married  is  a  private  matter, 
it  seems  to  me.  And  what  has  my  being  married  or  not 
to  do  with  my  child's  getting  well  ? 

DOCTOR.     Everything. 

ALMA.     Oh,  please  don't  be  absurd,  Doctor  Collins. 

DOCTOR.  Miss  Willys,  this  little  girl  you  have  brought  into 
the  world  has  never  had  proper  care. 

ALMA.     Why,  Doctor  Collins  ! 

DOCTOR.  I  mean  it.  You  probably  think  because  you  have 
fed  her  and  clothed  her  as  well  as  you  could  that  you  have 
given  her  all  that  she  needs.  That  is  not  enough.  There 
is  never  enough  that  you- can  do  for  a  small  child  struggling 
to  live.  It  needs  sunlight.  It  needs  fresh  air.  It  needs 
quiet  and  regularity.  The  most  stupid  person  knows  these 
things.  You  are  a  very  brilliant  young  woman,  but  if 
you've  ever  known  these  things  you've  forgotten  them — 
or  you  don't  care. 

ALMA.     I  don't  care  ! 

DOCTOR  COLLINS.  How  long  have  you  lived  here  in  this 
place  ? 

ALMA.     Oh,  I  don't  know  —  about  three  years. 

DOCTOR.     Ever  since  little  Bambi  was  born. 
ALMA.     Yes  —  almost  —  think  of  it ! 

DOCTOR.  Look  at  this  place.  Two  little  rooms  on  a  court. 
Filled  with  the  smell  of  tobacco  smoke.  The  only  sun 


FUNICULI  FUNICULA  145 

that  ever  comes  in  here  is  reflected  from  the  wall  opposite. 
When  you  go  out  at  night  you  take  the  child  with  you  be 
cause  there  is  no  one  to  leave  her  with  at  home.  She 
goes  to  concerts  and  to  the  theatre.  She  has  been  taught 
to  dance  and  act.  At  three  and  a  half  years  she  is  subjected 
to  all  the  excitements  and  nervous  strain  of  an  adult's 
life. 

ALMA.  Yovi  seem  to  have  been  discovering  many  facts  about 
us,  Doctor. 

DOCTOR.  It  is  my  duty  to  know  these  things.  They  are 
true,  aren't  they  ? 

ALMA.  Yes,  of  course.  What  would  you  have  us  do  ?  We 
have  Bambi  to  take  care  of.  We  can't  turn  her  over  to 
strangers.  We  haven't  enough  money  to  send  her  to 
school.  She  must  share  our  life  —  that's  logical. 

DOCTOR.     Why  shouldn't  you  share  hers! 

ALMA.  We  have  our  work  to  do.  We  can't  give  up  our 
work  simply  for  Bambi  ?  Why  should  we  ? 

DOCTOR.  Then  your  child's  life  isn't  worth  as  much  to  you 
as  your  —  art  —  or  whatever  you  call  it  ? 

ALMA  (coldly).     I  call  it  my  art  —  yes. 

DOCTOR.     You  haven't  answered  my  question. 

ALMA.  I  never  considered  it  that  way.  I  never  thought 
about  it  at  all.  We  have  no  set  plan  of  life.  That  would 
be  stupid,  and  we  couldn't  live  up  to  it  if  we  had.  We  all 
sort  of  live  along  somehow.  Taddem  goes  his  way,  I  go 
mine.  Bambi  .  .  . 

DOCTOR.     Yes,  Bambi  .  .  . 

ALMA.     She  will  go  hers  in  time,  I  suppose. 

DOCTOR.  So  she  is  just  to  live  along,  too.  A  child  cannot 
just  live  along.  A  child  must  be  guided  and  helped  to 
live.  It  cannot  fight  existence  as  a  grown  person  can. 
That  is  what  parents  are  for.  There  is  not  a  moment  in 
the  twenty-four  hours  when  your  child  is  not  in  danger 
from  so^ne  cause.  This  applies  to  any  child  —  and  par 
ticularly  to  your  child. 

ALMA.     To  my  child  ?     Why  ? 


146  FUNICULI  FUNICULA 

DOCTOR.  She  has  never  been  strong,  I  imagine,  from  birth. 
She  is  highly  nervous  and  anaemic.  Any  infection  which 
she  might  take  in  has  twice  as  much  power  over  her  as  it 
would  have  over  a  normal  child  leading  a  regular  life.  As 
soon  as  it  is  possible  for  you  to  do  so  I  advise  that  you  move 
away  from  here  —  into  the  country  where  she  will  get 
fresh  air  and  a  great  deal  of  it. 

ALMA.  So  you  would  make  commuters  out  of  Taddem  and 
me.  We  would  rather  die  first. 

DOCTOR  (rising).  Miss  Willys,  in  my  work  I  have  seen 
girls  from  the  street  —  ignorant,  brutal,  the  very  dirt  of 
life,  you  would  say  —  I've  seen  such  girls  willing  —  and 
glad  —  to  sacrifice  themselves  for  their  children. 

ALMA.     Sacrifice  ? 

DOCTOR.     You  hadn't  thought  of  that,  had  you  ? 

ALMA.     No.     No,  I  hadn't.     It  is  a  dreadful  word. 

DOCTOR  (gets  his  bag  —  reaches  out  his  hand  to  Alma  to  say 
good-by.  He  feels  much  more  sure  of  himself  now) .  Good 
night,  Miss  Willys.  Will  you  let  me  know  if  there  is  any 
change  ?  You  know  where  you  can  get  me  ?  Greely  2340. 
Don't  fail  to  call  me.  Have  the  prescription  made  out  at 
once.  I  will  be  here  first  thing  in  the  morning. 

ALMA.  But  Doctor  Collins  —  wait  a  minute.  Those  women 
—  mothers  —  have  they  no  rights  at  all  ?  I  remember 
right  after  Bambi  was  born  —  you  doctors  are  so  cruel  to 
us  mothers  —  you  never  think  of  us  at  all  —  everything  is 
the  child,  the  child  —  Have  we  no  rights  of  our  own  at  all  ? 
Is  everything  to  be  sacrificed  to  the  children  ? 

DOCTOR.     Everything. 

[Goes  out.  Alma  goes  into  the  room  and  returns  quickly. 
Taddema  Tanner  comes  in.  He  is  about  twenty-eight  years 
old ,  poetically  beautiful.  He  has  never  been  awake.  His 
dreams  are  not  great  enough  to  carry  him  victoriously  along, 
rather  do  they  break  over  him  and  leave  him  floundering 
helplessly.  A  failure.  He  is  defiantly  shabby.  There  is 
even  a  flower  in  his  buttonhole. 

TADDEMA.     Hello.     Here's  your  old  prescription.     Couldn't 


FUNICULI  FUNICULA  147 

get  in  earlier.  I've  been  helping  them  upstairs.  The 
room  looks  great,  Alma.  Gray,  orange,  and  black.  The 
Rebellious  Rabelaisian  Revel.  How's  that. 

ALMA.     Rather  amusing.     Whose  idea  was  that  ? 

TADDEMA.  Don't  know.  Not  particularly  good,  anyway. 
Any  one  could  have  thought  of  it.  The  main  thing  is  to 
believe  it.  Want  a  cigarette  ? 

ALMA.     Thanks. 

[He  lights  a  cigarette  for  her. 

TADDEMA.     Where's  the  Bambi  ? 

ALMA.  The  doctor  took  her  into  our  room.  He  thought  she 
would  be  more  quiet. 

TADDEMA.     And  where  am  I  supposed  to  sleep  then  ? 

ALMA.     I  suppose  you'll  have  to  sleep  here. 

TADDEMA.  With  all  that  hellish  racket  going  on  upstairs  at 
the  dance  ?  Barnbi'd  never  notice  it.  She  sleeps  through 
any  old  kind  of  noise.  Why  did  you  let  him  do  it,  Alma  ? 
You  might  have  thought  of  me.  You  know  how  noises 
get  on  my  nerves.  I  won't  be  able  to  sleep  the  whole 
night.  He  takes  a  lot  into  his  own  hands,  it  seems  to  me. 

ALMA.     He's  simply  a  doctor,  Taddem. 

TADDEMA.  And  the  room's  so  messy  you  can't  turn  around 
in  it.  Clothes  all  over  everything.  Medicine  bottles. 
And  what's  the  decoration  on  the  lamp  for  ? 

ALMA.  I  put  it  there  last  night  to  shade  Bambi's  eyes. 
Why  don't  you  spend  the  night  again  at  Hud's  as  you  did 
last  night? 

TADDEMA.     Because  he  doesn't  want  me.     You  know  —  that 
girl's   come  back  —  that    little    squint-eye    illustrator - 
why  don't  you  get  Mrs.  Farrell  to  come  and  clean  up  ?     I 
despise  dirt. 

ALMA  (sighing).  I  don't  know  —  oh,  yes,  her  husband's 
drunk  again.  Although  I  don't  know  why  we  always  ac 
cept  that  old  excuse.  But  I  feel  sorry  for  her.  Eight 
children.  Imagine.  (Picking  up  things)  I'll  see  if  I 
can't  do  something. 

TADDEMA.     Where's  a  broom  ?     I'll  help  you. 


148  FUNICULI  FUNICULA 

ALMA.  Oh,  don't  sweep.  It  always  makes  things  worse. 
What  costumes  are  they  going  to  wear,  Taddem? 

TADDEMA.  Oh,  the  usual  old  leopard  skin,  I  suppose.  You 
know,  I'd  like  to  go. 

ALMA.     Taddem !     With  Bambi  sick ! 

TADDEMA.  Oh,  I  suppose  it  wouldn't  be  right.  I  forgot, 
and  Nina  CardelFs  come  back. 

ALMA.     Oh,  I  see. 

TADDEMA.  You  know  she's  grown  to  be  really  beautiful, 
Alma. 

ALMA.     I  always  told  you  she  was,  Taddem. 

TADDEMA.  Yes,  probably  that  was  the  reason  I  didn't 
think  so. 

ALMA.  Is  she  going  ?  Of  course  she  is.  It's  strange  no  one 
has  told  me  anything  of  the  dance.  I  never  seem  to  be  in 
anything  any  more.  I  wish  we  could  go,  Taddem. 

TADDEMA.  No,  I  suppose  we  shouldn't.  It  wouldn't  do. 
How  does  she  seem,  anyway  ? 

ALMA.  Who  —  Bambi?  Just  about  the  same,  that  is,  as 
far  as  I  can  see.  The  doctor  seemed  to  think  she  wasn't 
getting  on  so  well. 

TADDEMA.  Poor  little  brat.  I  brought  her  a  toy.  (Reach 
ing  in  his  pocket)  A  little  mannikin  —  one  of  Hud's.  It 
would  amuse  her.  What  in  the  name  of  ...  did  I  do  with 
the  thing  ?  (Pulls  out  a  bunch  of  letters  and  clippings,  but 
can't  find  the  toy)  I  must  have  lost  it.  Too  bad.  (Goes 
to  his  work  table  —  looks  over  papers)  Just  saw  Lee  Hoyt. 
We  had  something  to  eat  together.  He's  starting  a  new 
religion  —  very  interesting.  Sort  of  a  Lily  Cup  Buddhism. 
The  Banner  did  him  out  of  his  money  just  the  way  they  did 
me.  It's  a  shame.  Looks  fat  enough.  Fatter  than  ever. 
Some  one  must  feed  him. 

ALMA.     Did  they  take  your  poem  ? 

TADDEMA.  What  poem  ?  Oh,  you  mean  that  last  one  ?  No, 
they  sent  it  back.  Got  it  up  at  Hud's.  I  don't  seem  to 
be  doing  the  stuff  I  used  to.  It's  this  everlasting  .  . 

ALMA  (quickly).     Everlasting  what,  Taddem? 


FUNICULI  FUNICULA  149 

TADDEMA.     Never  mind.     We  can't  help  it.     No  one  can. 

We're  nothing  but  worms.     Worms  under  the  foot.     Even 

you,  Alma,  you're  just  a  little  writhing  worm. 
ALMA.     I  can't  say  I'm  in  any  mood  to  be  called  a  worm, 

Taddem,  true  as  it  may  be.     So  they  sent  the  poem  back. 
TADDEMA.     Well,   what   difference   does   it   make?     I    can 

write  others.     I  have  an  idea  now  —  a  really  great  idea, 

Alma. 
ALMA.     I  thought  sure  they'd  take  it  —  it's  the  worst  thing 

you've  done.     Oh,  Taddem,  if  you  could  only  reason  a 

little.     We  need  money  so  dreadfully. 

TADDEMA  (who  has  been  thinking) .     What'd  you  say,  Alma  ? 
ALMA.     I  said  we  need  money.     We  need  it  terribly.     I  don't 

see  what  we're  going  to  do.     Oh,  if  you'd  only  see. 
TADDEMA.     I  do  see.     I  do  see.     I  see  everything.     What 

can  I  do  ?     What  can  we  do  ?     Just  as  I  said  —  we  are 

simply  worms. 

ALMA.     But  where  is  the  money  coming  from  ? 
TADDEMA.     What  makes  you  so  uncomfortably  practical  all 

at  once? 
ALMA.     Because  we  have  to  live.     Because  we  have  bills, 

hundreds  of  them.     The  doctor,  the  druggist  —  to  mention 

the  least  of  them. 
TADDEMA.     The  doctor  and  the  druggist  have  nothing  to  do 

with  my  immortal  soul. 
ALMA.     No,  perhaps  not  —  but  they  have  something  to  do 

with  Bambi's. 
TADDEMA.     Oh,    Bambi.     Well,    wait   and   see.     We'll   get 

money  in  some  place.     I'm  going  to  get  started  soon  and 

do  something  big.     You'll  see.     And  then  there's   your 

work.     Who's   that   man  —  you   know  —  he   liked    your 

drawings  ? 

ALMA  (in  disgust  and  despair).     Oh,  my  drawings  ! 
TADDEMA.     Well,  what's  wrong  with  them?     They're  good 

—  awfully  good.     Some  of  them  are  awfully  clever.     Every 

one  says  so,  Alma.     I  don't  see  what  makes  you  always 

so  pessimistic  about  your  work. 


150  FUNICULI  FUNICULA 

ALMA.  Because  I  haven't  the  time  to  give  to  it.  I  haven't 
the  time  to  think  of  it  even.  And  when  I  have  I'm  too 
tired.  It's  always  Bambi  first.  Bambi  all  day  long.  Her 
food,  her  bed,  her  toys,  her  this,  her  that,  from  morning 
until  night.  Even  when  she's  well.  .  .  .  And  when  she's 
sick  I'm  simply  worked  to  death.  How  can  I  do  anything 
else  ?  How  can  I  have  an  art  when  I  am  a  slave  bound 
hand  and  foot  ? 

TADDEMA.     Funny  how  an  idea  comes  to  you. 

ALMA  (who  is  worn  out  and  nervous  and  on  the  point  of  losing 
all  control).  Oh,  I'm  so  tired.  I'm  so  tired. 

TADDEMA  (who  has  been  thinking  his  own  thoughts  and  has  not 
listened).  Hud  is  an  awful  fool.  He  talks  too  much. 
But  he  says  so  much  he  can't  help  being  profound  some 
times.  He  said  something  last  night  that  impressed  me 
very  much.  "  Elemental  people  fear  death  —  intellectuals 
fear  life."  That's  not  a  bad  idea.  I  could  work  it  into  a 
sort  of  a  play.  (Starts  to  write)  Damn  the  doctor  and 
the  druggist. 

[Alma  goes  determinedly  to  a  cupboard  and  gets  out  her 
drawing  board,  etc.  She  knows  she  isn't  going  to  work,  but  she 
needs  the  contact  of  these  things  she  loves. 

ALMA  (turning  toward  door).  They're  beginning  to  go  up  to 
the  dance  already.  (After  a  pause  in  which  he  has  paid  no 
attention  to  her)  I  haven't  had  any  dinner,  Taddem. 

TADDEMA.     What  did  you  say,  Alma  ? 

ALMA.     Nothing. 

TADDEMA.     About  dinner.     Haven't  you  had  any  ? 

ALMA.     No,  how  could  I  ?     There's  nothing  here. 

TADDEMA.  That's  a  shame.  You  really  ought  to.  .  .  . 
[And  he  gets  engrossed  in  work  again. 

ALMA.  I  wonder  who's  going  ?  Probably*  would  be  a  bore, 
anyway,  don't  you  think,  Taddem  ? 

TADDEMA.     I  wish  you  could  keep  quiet,  Alma. 

ALMA.  Excuse  me.  I'm  sorry.  (After  a  minute)  Do  you 
know  any  of  the  men  who're  going  ?  (As  he  doesn't  answer) 
I  probably  wouldn't  know  any  one  if  we  did  go.  Still 


FUNICULI  FUNICULA  151 

there's  sure  to  be  some  one  of  the  old  crowd.  (Putting 
away  her  things  in  disgust)  Oh,  how  rotten  I  am.  Oh, 
how  worthless  I  am ! 

TADDEMA.     Oh,  if  you'd  only  keep  quiet. 

ALMA.  If  you'd  only  stop  writing  and  pay  some  attention 
to  me. 

TADDEMA.     Oh,  if  I  could  only  have  a  little  peace. 
[Starts  to  go  into  room  left. 

ALMA  (staying  him).  You  can't  go  in  there,  Taddem.  The 
doctor  said  Bambi  wasn't  to  be  disturbed. 

TADDEMA.     Where  am  I  to  go  then  ? 

ALMA.  You'll  have  to  stay  here  and  make  the  best  of  it  — 
as  I  have  to.  Listen  !  Is  she  calling  me  ? 

TADDEMA.     I  didn't  hear  anything. 

ALMA.  My  imagination.  .  .  I'm  always  hearing  her  call 
ing.  Even  in  my  sleep.  Oh,  if  she'd  only  get  well  again. 
We'd  have  some  peace. 

TADDEMA.  Well,  at  least  you  could  keep  quiet  and  let  me 
work. 

ALMA.  Yes,  let  you  work.  That's  just  it.  You  can  work. 
You  can  go  on  being  yourself  no  matter  what  happens. 
But  I  must  give  up  everything.  I  must  be  a  mere  pro 
tective  animal.  I  must  sacrifice  everything.  I'm  to  be 
nothing  but  a  mother  ! 

TADDEMA.  Well,  I'm  sure  you  have  yourself  to  blame  for  that. 
You  insisted  upon  being  a  mother,  didn't  you? 

ALMA  (sitting).  Yes,  I  did.  It  was  a  beautiful  dream. 
Taddem  —  when  we  were  in  Rome  all  that  time  —  was 
that  real  ?  Or  is  this  ?  Or  is  nothing  real  ? 

TADDEMA  (interested  —  always  ready  to  discuss  them  and  their 
life).  Yes  —  when  we  were  in  Rome. 

ALMA.  I  wonder  why  it  is  that  all  of  our  highest  dreams  al 
ways  lead  us  to  our  worst  miseries. 

TADDEMA.     Because  we  try  to  make  our  dreams  realities. 
ALMA.     Poets  joined  in  passion.     That  was  your  phrase, 
Taddem.     And  it  was  all  so  fine  and  high.     Let  us  never 
do  anything  ugly,  we  vowed,  let  us  never  do  anything 


152  FUNICULI  FUNICULA 

unworthy.  And  we  married  ourselves  in  the  Browning 
villa  with  these  rings.  They  did  it,  we  said,  why  shouldn't 
we  ?  And  our  dream  of  the  Bambino.  That  was  to  prove 
it.  Oh,  Taddem,  can  you  forget  ?  Do  you  remember  how 
eager  I  was  ?  Never  a  painter,  never  a  sculptor,  planned 
and  moulded  as  I  did. 

TADDEMA.  Do  you  remember  the  day  we  burned  the  candles 
to  the  Virgin  in  the  little  church  ?  There  was  an  Italian 
woman  there  and  you  knelt  together.  You  both  bent  your 
heads.  I  cried.  But  your  eyes  were  shining,  and  you 
looked  so  strong.  You  were  a  saint  to  me  then. 

ALMA.  Oh,  don't  say  that.  It  was  all  so  wrong,  so  foolishly 
wrong.  We  couldn't  do  it.  We  couldn't  carry  it  through. 
We've  failed.  The  passion  has  gone.  All  the  poetry  and 
splendor  we  drew  from  each  other  —  that  has  all  gone. 
We've  done  what  we  vowed  we  would  never  do.  We've 
become  ugly.  We've  become  unworthy.  We're  petty  and 
commonplace.  We're  like  all  married  people  from  here  to 
Harlem.  We've  a  few  pieces  of  furniture,  a  place  to  come 
to  and  pay  for,  and  a  child  —  a  child  we  both  hate. 

TADDEMA.     Hate  !     Why,  Alma ! 

ALMA.  Oh,  don't  say  that  we  don't  hate  her.  We  do.  She's 
in  our  way.  She's  always  been  in  our  way  ever  since  she 
was  born.  Ever  since  she  became  a  reality  she's  annoyed 
us.  She's  cost  us  money.  She's  kept  us  home  when  we 
wanted  to  go  out.  She's  cried  when  we  wanted  to  work. 
She's  made  our  love  ridiculous.  She's  made  a  family  out 
of  us  —  something  we  can't  stand.  We've  never  forgiven 
her  for  making  us  feel  that  all  our  passion  was  for  her  sake. 

TADDEMA.  That  isn't  true.  Don't  say  such  bitter,  cruel 
things. 

ALMA.     Oh,  you  know  they're  true. 

TADDEMA.     I'm  fond  of  Bambi  —  awfully. 

ALMA.     Yes,  when  you're  not  at  home,  when  you're  away, 
free  to  do  what  you  please,  when  I'm  here  all  alone,  doing 
my  duty.     My  duty  !     How  I  despise  my  duty  ! 
[Just  now  the  door  bursts  open  and  a  young  man  and  a  young 


FUNICULI  FUNICULA  153 

girl,  both  in  costume,  stumble  backward  into  the  room.  The 
man  has  been  chasing  the  girl  upstairs  and  has  just  now 
caught  her  and  is  ardently  trying  to  kiss  her.  The  girl  isn't 
really  unwilling,  but  laughingly  and  temptingly  pretends  that 
she  is.  When  they  realize  where  they  are,  they  laughingly 
run  away. 

ALMA  (passionately).     I  want  to  go  up  to  the  dance ! 

TADDEMA.     We  oughtn't  to. 

ALMA.     If  I  could  only  go  ! 

TADDEMA.  Do  you  think  we  could  ?  We  could  run  up  for 
an  hour  or  so.  We  could  come  down  from  time  to  time. 

ALMA.  Oh,  no,  I  should  hate  that.  You  don't  want  to 
think  of  medicine  bottles  when  you're  dancing.  I'd  rather 
not  go  at  all  then. 

TADDEMA.  We  could  ask  one  of  the  women  to  look  down 
here  every  now  and  then.  Lots  of  them  like  Bambi.  Do 
you  suppose  we  could,  Alma  ?  I'd  love  to  go  to-night. 

ALMA.     He  gave  her  something  to  make  her  sleep.     Oh,  Tad- 
dem,   I  forgot  the  prescription.     Well,   we  can  have  it 
filled  in  the  morning.     I'll  go  in  and  see  how  she  is. 
[Starts  to  go  to  room  left. 

TADDEMA.  Yes,  you  go  and  see  how  she  is.  I'll  get  the  cos 
tumes.  Do  you  know  where  they  are  ? 

ALMA.  I  think  they're  in  that  box  under  the  couch.  (Hesi 
tating)  Do  you  think  it's  all  right,  Taddem  ? 

TADDEMA.  O,  of  course.  It's  just  upstairs.  (Hesitating) 
But  if  you  don't  .  .  . 

ALMA.     Get  out  that  yellow  thing  I  wore  - 

[She  goes  out  left.  The  orchestra  is  heard  playing  upstairs. 
It  is  very  faint.  It  is  playing  Funiculi  Funicula.  Taddema 
gets  out  a  Pierrot  costume  and  puts  it  on,  singing  the  words 
to  the  song. 

ALMA  (r centering) .     Taddem  ! 

TADDEMA.  What's  wrong  now?  What's  the  matter, 
Alma? 

ALMA.     Taddem ! 

TADDEMA.     What  is  it,  Alma  ?     What's  wrong  with  you  ? 


154  FUNICULI  FUNICULA 

ALMA.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing's  wrong.  I  was  think 
ing  .  .  .  But  why  shouldn't  we  go?  We  must  go. 
I've  got  to  go.  Give  me  my  domino.  Where  is  it? 
What  did  you  do  with  my  domino,  Taddem  ? 

TADDEMA.     Here  it  is. 

ALMA.  It's  all  dusty.  The  moths  have  been  in  it.  (Laugh 
ing)  Moths  in  my  gay  little  domino.  Where's  my  hat, 
Taddem.  Get  it  for  me.  We  must  hurry.  Oh,  please 
hurry.  There  it  is  —  don't  you  see  —  in  the  paper  —  Give 
it  to  me.  Oh,  my  face  — - 1  have  some  powder  here  —  Oh, 
I  look  dreadful  --  (She  rouges  and  powders  her  face) 
Are  you  all  dressed,  Taddem  ?  Powder  your  face.  Pierrot 
.  .  .  Pierrot  .  .  . 

TADDEMA.     If  you  think  we  shouldn't  go,  Alma  .  .  . 

ALMA.  Keep  quiet.  Of  course  we're  going.  There,  do  I 
look  all  right.  Do  I  look  pretty  ?  I'm  not  an  old  woman, 
am  I?  Am  I,  Taddem?  (Clinging  to  him)  Am  I? 
Answer  me.  Tell  me  something.  Say  something,  say 
something  mad  .  .  .  Oh,  Taddem,  if  I  could  only  bring 
you  back  to  me.  .  .  (Pulling  him  to  the  door)  Be  my 
lover  again  —  Come,  be  my  lover  —  You  are  my  lover, 
aren't  you  ?  Aren't  you  ?  Tell  me,  tell  me,  tell  me. 

TADDEMA  (trying  to  resist).     But  I  don't  understand  .  .  . 

ALMA  (pulling  him  to  the  door).  Understand,  understand. 
What  is  there  to  understand  ?  You  must  understand  that 
I  want  to  go  to  the  dance.  I  want  to  dance  and  dance. 
Don't  pull  back  now.  Come  with  me.  Come  with  me. 

TADDEMA.     Alma,  Bambi's  worse.     You're  running  away. 

ALMA.     Oh,  please  come.     Hurry. 

TADDEMA.     She's  all  right  then? 

ALMA.     Of  course,  of  course.     Oh,  if  you'd  only  hurry. 

TADDEMA.  I  don't  believe  you.  I  am  going  to  see  for  myself. 
[Starts  left. 

ALMA  (staying  him — frantically).  Don't.  Don't  do  that. 
You  mustn't  go  in  there.  You  mustn't  go  in  there.  Tad 
dem,  for  God's  sake,  don't  go  in  there  now. 

TADDEMA.     What  is  it  ?     Is  she  worse  . 


FUNICULI  FUNICULA  155 

ALMA.     Oh,  come  with  me.     Come  away  with  me.      (Wind 
ing  herself  about  him)     Dearest,  come  with  me.     You  do 
love  me.     I  know  you  do.     Think  only  of  me,  and  I  will 
think  only  of  you.     Nothing  else  matters.     Taddem,  look 
at  me.     Look  at  me.     Kiss  me.     Just  once  —  kiss  me. 
TADDEMA  (fascinated).     Alma,  I  don't  know  you  now. 
ALMA  (breaking  away  as  he  is  about  to  kiss  her).     Oh,  I  can't. 
I  can't. 

[She  comes  staggering  back  into  the  room. 
TADDEMA  (hoarsely) .     Bambi  .  .  . 

ALMA.  I  went  in  ...  I  couldn't  hear  anything  —  not  a 
sound  —  then  the  curtain  blew  —  I  saw  a  light  there  — 
I  went  over  —  I  went  over  —  I  touched  her  —  her  little 
face,  Taddem  —  her  little  face  —  cold  —  cold,  Taddem. 
(She  sees  the  little  bathrobe  and  snatches  it  to  her  breast, 
sobbing) 

Oh,  my  baby.  My  baby.  My  little,  little  baby ! 
[She  staggers  out  left,  weeping  hysterically.  Taddema  fol 
lows  her  to  the  door  and  looks  into  the  other  room.  Then  he 
comes  back.  He  walks  over  to  the  light  and  puts  it  out.  He 
goes  to  the  window  where  the  light  is  streaming  in  and  opens  it. 
The  music  from  upstairs  is,  of  course,  heard  more  plainly. 
He  crouches  a  moment  by  the  window.  He  is  very  young.  He 
has  loved  his  child  in  his  own  way.  Now  that  she  is  dead  he 
loves  her  more.  He  has  real  grief,  but  this  was  the  night  he 
wanted  to  be  gay.  He  hates  his  grief.  He  is  passionately  angry 
that  he  is  sad  when  others  are  gay.  A  man's  voice  is  heard  now 
singing  the  words  to  Funiculi  Funicula,  very  gaily.  A  girl's 
voice  chimes  in.  Taddema  turns  to  his  couch  and  with  pas 
sionate  anger  bursts  out  "Damn!  Damn!"  Then  he  falls  face 
down,  bitterly  weeping. 

CURTAIN 


HUNGER 

EUGENE   PILLOT 

MR.  EUGENE  PILLOT  was  born  in  Houston,  Texas,  and  has 
studied  at  Culver  Military  Academy,  the  New  York  School 
of  Fine  and  Applied  Art,  the  University  of  Texas,  Cornell 
University,  and  Harvard  University. 

He  has  written  several  plays,  all  of  which  have  seen  suc 
cessful  production.  His  "Simms  —  Vane  Incident",  a  one- 
act  play,  was  produced  at  the  47  Workshop  of  Harvard  in 
1917,  and  his  "The  Middle  Window",  a  three-act  play,  at 
the  same  place  in  1918.  "The  Glazing  Globe",  a  one-act 
play,  was  produced  at  Houston,  Texas,  1918.  "  Hunger  "  has 
been  given  by  the  Boston  Community  Players,  and  at  recitals. 


HUNGER 


BY  EUGENE  PILLOT 


"Hunger"  was  originally  produced  by  The  Boston  Com 
munity  Players,  Boston,  Massachusetts,  May  15  and  16, 1918. 

Original  Cast 

THE  BEGGAR Robert  Winternitz 

THE  POET Frank  Carson 

THE  GIRL Beulah  Auerbach 

THE  MAN Reginald  Coggeshawl 

THE  SATISFIED  ONE Eugene  Pillot 


COPYRIGHT,  1918,  BY  EUGENE  PILLOT. 
All  rights  reserved. 

Published  originally  in  The  Stratford  Journal. 

Application  for  the  right  of  performing  "Hunger"  must  be  made  to  Mr.  Eugene 
Pillot,  47  Workshop,  Harvard  University,  Cambridge,  Massachusetts. 


HUNGER 

SCENE.  A  great  gray  tower,  so  tall  that  you  cannot  see  its  top, 
is  beside  a  gray  road.  A  purple  door,  outlined  with  a  latticed 
band  of  gold,  is  in  the  center  of  the  tower,  and  there  are  huge 
light-green  rocks  on  each  side.  In  the  distance  are  several 
poplar  trees  and  a  rolling  country. 
TIME.  A  day  before  now. 

When  the  curtain  rises,  the  Beggar  is  asleep  on  the  rock  at  the 
left  of  tower.     The  mass  of  brown  and  yellow  rags  that  cover 
his  fat  body  brings  into  bold  relief  his  mop  of  shaggy  red  hair. 
He  sighs,  sits  up,  yawns,  rubs  his  eyes,  and  nods  again  sleepily. 
BEGGAR  (suddenly  sitting  erect,  blinking).     Aw,  tis  a  pity  good, 
sound  sleep  should  ever  end.     (Leans  forward  and  looks  up 
at  door)     So  you're  not  open  yet,  old  door,  eh?     (Rises, 
glances  quickly  to  right,  then  to  left,  and  limps  up  the  three 
stone  steps  to  door,  grabs  door  knob  and  feverishly  tries  to  open 
door,  which  remains  immobile.     Despondent,  he  slaps  his 
hand  against  the  door)     Aw,  ain't  you  going  to  ever  open  ? 
(Pushes  himself  away  from  door  and  regards  it  contempla 
tively)     You  might  show  just  a  crack  of  your  inside  any 
how.     Stingy ! 

[Slaps  door.  The  sound  of  approaching  footsteps  from  off 
right  causes  him  to  scramble  to  his  rock,  where  he  sits  with  out 
stretched  hand. 

From  right,  enter  the  Poet,  a  thin,  pale  man  with  a  thin,  pale 
voice.  He  is  a  curly-headed  blond  and  wears  loose-fitting 
trousers  of  rather  a  dark  blue;  a  long-waisted  blouse  oj 
light  blue  embroidered  with  gold;  soft  gold  shoes,  and  carries 
a  long,  light  green  quill.  His  head  in  the  air,  he  walks  along 
dreamily  until  he  sees  the  tower  and  hastens  to  its  door. 


HUNGER 


BEGGAR  (quickly).  Alms  for  a  poor  lame  beggar!  Alms  for 
a  poor  lame  beggar  ! 

POET  (with  a  flourish  of  his  hands).     Alms  —  I  have  none. 

BEGGAK  (grabs  his  stomach  with  one  hand,  while  the  other  re 
mains  outstretched).  Oh,  but  I  ask  for  my  hunger,  sire! 
My  hunger  for  bread  ! 

POET.     Bread  ?     Forsooth,  'tis  an  earthly  thing. 

BEGGAR.  Even  so,  my  belly  would  feel  the  weight  of  it  - 
so  hungry  am  I,  sire,  so  hungry  ! 

POET.  Yours  is  not  the  only  hunger  in  the  world.  Alas,  I 
have  one  of  my  own.  (Grabs  door  knob  with  both  hands  and 
tries  to  force  open  the  door)  And  I  shall  be  fed  !  I  shall ! 
(Appealingly,  to  door)  O  Muses,  Muses,  let  it  open  !  Open 
the  door  —  or  I  die  of  hunger.  (Sighs,  drops  his  hands,  and 
goes  to  rock  at  right  of  tower  where  he  sits  weeping,  his  face  in 
his  hands)  O-oh,  oh,  oh. 

BEGGAR.  Forsooth,  you  must  have  a  long  hunger,  if  it  has 
brought  you  to  dropping  tears. 

POET  (forlornly).     I  have  felt  it  since  I  was  born. 

BEGGAR.  Aw,  I've  been  hungry  as  an  ox  for  longer  than  my 
belly  will  let  me  remember ;  but  never  could  I  afford  to 
drop  tears.  Wastes  too  much  salt.  And  my  belly  so 
needs  salt  for  bread.  (Rocks  himself)  Oh,  how  it  needs 
the  bread,  too ! 

POET.     Salt !    The  salt  of  desire  ! 
[Weeps. 

BEGGAR.  Losing  so  much  salt  is  what's  made  you  so  skinny, 
do  you  know  it  ? 

POET  (weeping).    Who  knows!    (Weeps  louder)    Who  knows! 

BEGGAR.  Father  of  suffering  pussy-cats!  Stop  wailing! 
Forsooth,  you  make  me  hungrier.  (Rocks  himself)  Aw, 
stop  it !  Soon  you'll  be  having  me  lose  my  own  salt. 
Stop,  I  say,  stop ! 

POET  (stops  weeping  and  looks  at  him  tearfully) .  Ah,  'tis  hard 
to  stop,  once  you've  begun.  (Sighs)  Seems  to  soothe 
like  great  waves  rolling  in  from  the  sea. 

BEGGAR.     Huh,  how  you  people  with  brains  do  fool  your- 


HUNGER  163 


selves.     Just  how  long  have  you  been  hungry  for  bread, 

anyhow  ? 

POET  (insulted).     I'm  not  hungry  for  bread! 
BEGGAR.     What !     Not  hungry  for  bread  ? 
POET.     Certainly  not. 
BEGGAR.     Ye  lolly-pop  gods  !     How  can  you  wail  so,  if  your 

belly's  not  empty?     In  pretending  you  shame  our  best 

actor-men.     You're  a  wonder  of  wonders  !     (Rises)     What 

do  you  call  yourself  ? 
POET.     A  poet  —  a  hungry  poet. 
BEGGAR.     Indeed.     (Moves    nearer,    interested)     If    not    for 

bread,  for  what  can  a  poet  hunger? 
POET.     For  love ! 
BEGGAR  (sarcastically) .     For  love  ?     That  puny  thing  that's 

always  dying? 

POET.     It  alone  can  make  you  live  —  really  live  ! 
BEGGAR  (scornfully,  as  he  resumes  his  seat  on  the  rock).     I 

breathe  without  it. 
POET.     But  it  warms  the  heart  and  makes  of  the  world  an 

Elysian  field  of  rose-colored  jasmines,   where  doves  have 

the  voices  of  angels  and  -       (Beggar  is  bowled  over  with 

hilarious   laughter)     'Tis  no   more  of  a  jest  to   me  than 

your  bread  is  to  you. 
BEGGAR.     Bread !     Ha,  if  I  had  it  now,  my  teeth  would  bite 

into  it  and  I'd  jam  it  through  my  system  till  it  was  stuffed 

to  the  bursting. 
POET.     Alas,  the  hunger  of  the  stomach  is  as  nothing  when 

compared  to  the  hunger  of  the  heart. 
BEGGAR.     Heart  ?     Your  grandmother's  fiddlesticks  ! 
POET  (his  emotion  causing  him  to  spring  from  his  rock) .     But 

the  heart-hunger  makes  you  mad  with  desire !     And  love 

—  only  sweet  love  can  still  it.     'Tis  the  only  food  that 

satisfies  an  empty  heart ! 
BEGGAR  (fretfully).     Bread's  the  only  food.     Eat  some  and 

you  won't  need  this  sweet  love. 
POET  (not  heeding  him).     The  verses  I  write  possess  every 

charm  but  love.     Ah,  how  I  could  write  if  I  had  it !     Love  ! 


164  HUNGER 


LOVE  ! !     So  long  have  I  hungered  for  you  ! 

[Weeps. . 
BEGGAR.     Stop,  you  weepy,  poesy  poet !     My  salt's  ready  to 

slip  from  jne.     Stop,  I  say,  stop ! 
POET  (stops  weeping,  looks  at  Beggar).     All  right,  I'll  stop  — 

but  I  feel  like  starting  all  over  again,  when  I  think  about 

what's  on  the  other  side  of  that  door. 

[Points  to  purple  door. 
BEGGAR  (eagerly).     What  do  you  know  about  the  other  side 

of  that  door  ? 
POET.     That  there  is  abundance  of  food  there  for  all  who 

hunger. 
BEGGAR.     So  you  know  that  too.     (Sits  on  steps  before  door) 

Ain't  it  a  wonderful  thing  to  think  about?     In  a  great 

golden  hall,  yellow  as  the  yolk  of  a  healthy  egg,  is  a  table 

—  piled  higher  than  anybody  can  see  —  with  every  kind 

of  food  !     Why,  no  matter  what  you're  hungering  for,  your 

food's  there  on  that  table  —  and  more  of  it  than  you  could 

eat,  if  you  lived  till  you  were  born  again.     A-ah,  it  must 

be  a  happy  place. 

[Rises,  moves  toward  right. 
POET  (rushing  to  door).     But  I  don't  want  to  think  about  the 

food  that's  there !     I  want  to  get  to  it ! 

[Fumbles  with  door  knob. 
BEGGAR.     Alas,  getting  through  the  door  is  the  problem  of 

the  ages. 
POET.   But  I  don't  see  why  I  can't  solve  it !  (Jerks  at  door  knob) 

If  I  only  knew  the  secret  of  your  turn  !     If  I  only  knew ! 
BEGGAR  (dryly).     Only  one  man  knows  that. 
POET.     Yes !     Yes ! 

BEGGAR.     Preserve  your  exclamations,  for  he  won't  tell. 
POET.     Who  is  he? 
BEGGAR.     The  Satisfied  One. 

POET  (blandly).     I  never  heard  of  the  Satisfied  One. 
BEGGAR.     Well,  he's  the  only  one  who's  gone  through  that 

door  and  satisfied  his  hunger.     That's  doing  enough  to 

be  talked  about,  let  me  tell  you. 


HUNGER  165 


POET.     But  can't  he  be  made  to  tell  ? 

BEGGAR.  No  one's  ever  got  the  secret  from  him  yet ;  but 
some  day  we  shall,  mark  my  word  for  that. 

POET.     How  ? 

BEGGAR  (looking  toward  right).  Quiet!  Some  one's  com 
ing. 

POET.     But  I  want  to  know  how  —  ? 

BEGGAR.     Hush  !     Take  to  your  rock. 

POET  (sits  on  his  rock).     Can  you  see  who  it  is ? 

BEGGAR.  No,  the  dust  still  flies  in  the  road.  (Half -whisper, 
turning  to  Poet)  But  it  might  be  the  Satisfied  One  —  who 
knows  ? 

POET.     Why  do  you  think  so  ? 

BEGGAR  (confidentially).  Oh,  I  heard  it  spoken  on  the  edge 
of  a  quiet  corner  —  the  Satisfied  One  might  pass  this 
way  to-day.  Ah,  your  ears  get  sharp  when  your  belly's 
empty  and  hungry  for  bread. 

POET.     And  I  hungry  for  sweet  love ! 

BEGGAR.     Hist !     He's  here  ! 

[Quickly  assumes  a  crouching  position  to  left  of  door  and 
extends  his  hand  across  the  steps  for  alms. 
From  the  right,  enter  the  Man  —  large  and  handsome,  the 
orator  type.  Bare-limbed  and  sandalled,  he  wears  a  robe 
not  unlike  a  Roman  toga,  light-green  with  a  wide  band  of 
gold  near  the  hem  and  across  the  chest.  Bracelets  of  heavy 
gold.  He  walks  straight  to  the  door  and  is  about  to  turn  the 
knob,  when  the  Beggar  speaks. 

BEGGAR.  Alms  for  a  poor,  lame  beggar !  Alms  for  a  very 
poor  lame  beggar ! 

MAN.     Alms?     Alms,  fellow? 

BEGGAR.  For  my  hunger,  sire !  Give  to  a  very,  very  poor 
lame  beggar ! 

MAN.     For  your  hunger  ? 

BEGGAR.  Yes,  for  all  of  it.  'Tis  a  long  hunger,  sire  —  a 
long  one. 

MAN  (stoutly).  Fellow,  I  will  give  you  all  the  bread  in  the 
kingdom  — 


166  HUNGER 


BEGGAR  (licking  his  mouth  in  anticipation).  At  last  a  man 
after  mine  own  heart ! 

MAN.     //  you  will  tell  me  how  to  feed  my  hunger  ! 

BEGGAR  (exploding) .  Father  of  pussy-cats !  Another  one 
of  us  !  Are  all  the  hungries  let  loose  to-day  ? 

POET  (timidly) .     Then  you  are  not  —  the  Satisfied  One  ? 

MAN.  Satisfied  ?  Indeed  not !  (Oratorically)  My  hunger 
runneth  through  the  ages ;  and  from  the  beginning  of  time 
to  the  Day  of  Judgment  shall  I  seek  its  satisfaction.  It  is 
a  thing  eternal ! 

BEGGAR.  Even  eternal  hunger  is  with  us.  (Moans)  Un 
happy  day,  unhappy  day ! 

POET  (to  Man) .  My  hunger  for  love  —  sweet  love  —  is  that 
great  too.  What  food  do  you  seek  to  appease  your  hunger  ? 

BEGGAR  (moaning) .     Hunger  !     Hunger  ! 

MAN  (leans  back  against  the  door,  glances  at  Poet,  then  at  Beg 
gar,  who  has  crept  to  his  rock) .  Ah,  what  do  either  of  you 
poor  souls  know  of  hunger  ?  Wait  until  you  feel  mine  — 
a  hunger  more  than  bread  or  love  or  any  earthly  thing ! 

BEGGAR.     Forsooth,  yours  must  give  you  the  belly-ache. 

POET.     Wrhat  is  yours  ? 

MAN.  The  only  hunger  that  gives  a  hot,  clear  passion  — 
fills  you  with  a  lust  for  life  and  power  —  thrills  you  with 
youth  and  love  and  wild  desire ! 

BEGGAR.  Name  it  quickly,  Man,  name  it !  Perhaps  'twill 
make  ours  seem  sickly  by  comparison. 

POET.     Ah,  yes.     For  what  do  you  hunger? 

MAN  (striking  a  dramatic  pose) .     For  fame  ! 

BEGGAR.  What?  Do  my  ears  do  their  duty?  For  fame, 
you  say  ? 

MAN.     Yes  —  glorious,  glittering  fame  ! 

BEGGAR  (scornfully).     Huh,  you  rate  your  hunger  high. 

MAN  (facing  door) .  So  high  that  the  very  stars  will  look  down 
and  give  me  strength  to  force  this  door  that  I  may  feed 
my  lust  for  fame.  ( Tries  to  force  open  door)  I've  sacrificed 
every  earthly  joy  to  get  through  you.  (Tugs  at  knob) 
And  you  shall  open !  You  shall ! 


HUNGER  167 


BEGGAR  (laughing) .     Ha,  ha,  ha-h-a-a- ! 

MAN.     Why  do  you  laugh  ? 

BEGGAR.     Because  you  are  as  simple  as  a  cow. 

MAN.     What? 

BEGGAR.  Butting  a  pasture  never  filled  the  cavity  of  a  heifer. 
But  do  not  take  it  so  scowlingly.  I  will  tell  you  something. 
Only  the  Satisfied  One  knows  the  way  through  the  door  and 
he's  coming  this  way  soon. 

POET  (he  has  been  looking  toward  right).  Some  one's  coming 
now !  And  in  a  hurry. 

BEGGAR  (to  Man).  Perhaps  the  Satisfied  One!  Quick,  get 
your  lowers  under  your  uppers. 

MAN.     What? 

BEGGAR.     I  mean  —  sit  over  there  on  the  rock  !    Quick,  be 
fore  he  gets  here ! 
[Beggar  returns  to  his  own  rock. 

Man  sits  on  rock  at  extreme  right.  From  the  right,  enter 
the  Girl,  running.  She  is  a  wild,  graceful  creature,  bare- 
armed,  and  clothed  in  lengths  of  many  colored  chiffons  that 
hang  from  a  band  of  gold  at  her  shoulders.  Seeing  the  door, 
she  gives  a  gasp  of  joy  and  with  outstretched  arms  rushes  to 
it,  gives  the  knob  a  quick  turn,  extracts  a  large  gold  hairpin 
from  her  flowing  hair  and  wiggles  it  in  the  keyhole. 

BEGGAR.  A  hairpin !  Woman's  refuge  in  all  emergencies. 
[The  hairpin  is  unsuccessful  and  the  Girl  goes  to  band  that 
outlines  the  door,  attempts  to  climb  it.  Interested,  the  others 
crowd  round  to  see  what  she  intends  to  do.  She  looks  at 
band,  contemplates  its  height.  All  are  breathless  as  she 
makes  an  effort  to  climb  up  band.  She  slips  back  and  all 
sigh,  disappointed  —  except  the  Beggar,  who  laughs. 

GIRL  (faces  them,  angrily).  If  any  one  of  you  can  do  it  bet 
ter,  show  me  how.  (Embarrassed,  they  remain  silent)  I 
thought  not.  Then  get  back !  Get  back !  And  let  me 
do  it  my  own  way  ! 

[They  move  aivay  from  her.     Reaching  higher,  she  tries  to 
-  climb,  but  slips  back  to  the  ground.      The  Beggar  holds  his 
sides  with  laughter.     All  are  annoyed. 


168  HUNGER 


MAN.     Don't  laugh,  you  foolish  Beggar. 

POET.  No,  don't;  the  Satisfied  One  may  show  us  the 
way. 

BEGGAR  (laughing  louder  than  ever) .  Ho,  ho,  ho !  That's 
—  not  —  the  —  Satisfied  One ! 

POET.     Are  you  sure  it  isn't  ? 

BEGGAR.     Sure  as  a  pig's  egg  that  Easter  comes  on  a  Sunday. 

MAN.     But  it  might  be  — 

BEGGAR.  Might  be  an  elephant's  pig-tail !  Why,  look  how 
she  scrambles  at  the  wall !  She's  as  hungry  as  we  are. 

POET.  Surely,  that's  so.  (Then  to  Girl)  Sweet  Girl,  are 
you  really  hungry,  too  ? 

GIRL  (fiercely).     Hungry?     HUNGRY?     I'm  starving II 

BEGGAR.     Forsooth,  this  one  has  a  rabid  hunger ! 

MAN.     Then  you  aren't  the  Satisfied  One  either  ? 

GIRL.  Satisfied?  Huh,  I've  never  had  even  one  dress  to 
satisfy  me ! 

BEGGAR.  Dress  ?  Dress  ?  Father  of  pussy-cats,  what  kind 
of  a  hunger  is  this  ? 

GIRL.  Oh,  you'd  hardly  understand  it  —  it's  so  much  a 
woman's  hunger. 

BEGGAR.  Nevertheless,  'twould  be  a  pleasure  to  know  your 
hunger.  (Coaxing)  Come,  tell  us,  won't  you? 

POET  (as  all  go  nearer  Girl)      Oh,  do  tell,  sweet  one. 

GIRL.  The  world  would  call  it  —  beauty.  That's  what  it 
would  call  my  hunger ;  but  to  me  it  means  clothes  !  Soft, 
beautiful  clothes ! 

BEGGAR.     Clothes  !     Such  a  hunger  !     (Laughs)     Soft,  beau 
tiful  clothes  !  ha,  ha,  ha  ! 
[He  is  bowled  over  with  laughter. 

GIRL.  No  man  ever  quite  understands  my  hunger ;  but  a 
woman  would  know  what  it  is  for  your  very  soul  to  ache 
for  a  gown  of  golden-blue,  shimmering  with  threads  of 
green  and  gold  that  run  through  it  like  rivers  of  light ! 
A-ah,  that  is  a  hunger  indeed.  And  to  throb  and  yearn 
for  garments  as  sweeping  as  the  singing  winds  over  moon 
lit  fields,  lavender  and  milk-white  in  the  shifting  shadows 


HUNGER  169 


that  make  all  the  world  into  waves  of  silver-pearl  and 
blurs  of  maddening  blue  ! 

MAN.  But,  child,  in  your  own  garments  you  have  bits  of  all 
that  you  hunger  for. 

GIRL.  Yes,  bits,  bits— -like  feathers  from  a  last  year's 
hat! 

MAN.     Tis  something. 

GIRL.  Not  to  a  woman,  when  she  wants  something  new.  Be 
sides,  these  bits  are  but  to  keep  me  from  forgetting  what  I 
want. 

BEGGAR  (laughs).     Ha! 

GIRL.  Oh,  you  would  not  even  smile,  if  you  knew  how  hard 
it  was  to  get  them.  This,  for  instance  —  (holds  up  a  length 
of  blood-orange  chiffon)  I  stole  from  the  sash  of  a  gypsy 
man,  because  its  flaming  orange  leaped  at  me ! 

BEGGAR.     I  don't  see  how  a  sash  could  leap  at  anybody. 

GIRL.  That's  because  you  never  passed  shop  windows  in  the 
springtime  and  had  the  clothes  in  them  simply  cry  out  for 
you  to  come  and  buy  them. 

BEGGAR.     No,  but  maybe  a  bakery  shop  would. 

GIRL.  Well,  this  flaming  orange  leaped  at  me  and  cried  out : 
"  I  am  your  soul  from  the  sun-burned  tropics  !  Take  me, 
and  know  the  delirium  of  the  scorching  sands  at  mid-day." 
I  took  it  and  paid  for  it  with  the  laughter  of  my  youth  - 
a  laughter  as  fresh  and  dewy  as  a  summer's  morn.  And 
this  —  (holds  up  a  length  of  cold  blue  chiffon)  this  I  bought 
with  my  tears  from  a  vendor  of  sorrows.  But  for  this  - 
(holds  up  length  of  brilliant  yellow  chiffon)  I  gave  the  highest 
price  of  all  —  the  rapture  of  my  betrothal  kiss  —  for  this 
thing  of  golden  sunlight  was  in  the  robe  of  the  man  I 
loved  —  and  loved  —  and  loved  — 

MAN.     But  you  hunger  for  a  most  vanishing  thing.     Clothes 

will  wear  out  and  then  you  will  have  nothing. 
BEGGAR.     Nothing  but  the  holes. 

GIRL.  How  little  you  understand  a  woman's  hunger.  Bread 
passes  away,  love  dies,  and  fame  vanishes  overnight ;  but 
the  memory  of  one  beautiful,  glorious  dress  is  everlasting. 


170  HUNGER 


BEGGAR.  Yes,  no  doubt  it  makes  conversation  for  many  a 
supper-time. 

GIRL.     Oh,  I'd  see  it  and  feel  it  clinging  to  me  always  —  even 
though  the  styles  did  change. 
[Turns  to  door. 

BEGGAR.  Well,  if  you  try  to  climb  that  door,  you'll  feel 
nothing  but  a  hurt. 

GIRL  (confidentially,  to  all).  You  know,  I  thought  if  I  could 
climb  up  this  band,  perhaps  I  could  get  to  the  top  of  the 
tower  and  slide  down  on  the  inside. 

BEGGAR.  It's  not  to  be  done.  I  tried  that  once  already  my 
self. 

GIRL.     And  what  happened  ? 

BEGGAR.  I  got  just  as  far  as  the  middle  up  there  —  over  the 
door  and  — 

GIRL.     Yes,  go  on  ! 

BEGGAR.  That  was  the  pinch  —  couldn't  go  on.  Nothing 
to  step  on. 

GIRL.     Nothing  at  all  ? 

BEGGAR.  Nothing  but  bare  wall  that  keeps  stretching  up 
and  up  and  up.  The  blame  tower  ain't  got  no  top.  OL, 
I  tried  to  slip  up;  that's  how  I  fell  down  and  got  my 
limp.  I  tell  you  the  only  way's  to  go  through  the  door. 

GIRL  (despondently).     Then  I'll  never  get  there. 

BEGGAR.  Aw,  buck  up  !  Buck  up  !  You  got  enough  clothes 
to  last  you  till  we  go  through  the  door.  We're  waiting 
now  for  the  Satisfied  One.  He  knows  how  to  get  through. 

GIRL.     But  will  he  tell  ? 

BEGGAR.  We  ain't  been  starving  for  nothing.  We'll  make 
him  tell,  all  of  us  together.  Now  go  sit  on  that  rock  and 
keep  the  wait  with  us.  (Girl  sits  on  rock  that  is  between 
Man  and  Poet.  Beggar  sees  some  one  coming  down  the  road, 
right.  Excitedly,  to  all)  See  !  He's  coming !  He's  coming! 
[All  look  eagerly. 

POET.     Who  —  a  sweet  one  ? 

BEGGAR.  Naw,  the  Satisfied  One.  Now  we'll  get  through 
the  door ! 


HUNGER  171 


MAN.     It  might  be  just  another  poor  hunger. 

BEGGAR.  There  ain't  any  more  hungers  in  the  world  —  ex 
cept  the  little  ones ;  and  they  don't  count.  Besides,  this 
is  an  old  man  coming. 

GIRL.     Are  you  sure  we're  all  the  great  hungers  of  the  world  ? 

BEGGAR.     Sure.    (Pointing  to  each)     Clothes,  love,  fame  — 
and  bread,  that's  me.     Only  little  fish  would  hunger  for 
anything  else. 

GIRL.     He's  almost  here.     What  shall  we  do  to  make  him  tell  ? 

BEGGAR.  We  must  hit  upon  a  plan.  Come  nearer.  (All 
crowd  round  him)  Now  what  have  you  to  suggest  ?  You  ? 
You  ?  (All  stare  at  him  blankly)  Don't  open  your  mouths 
without  saying  anything  !  Be  quick  !  He's  almost  here  ! 
Quick!  (All  "er"  and  "ah",  but  can  think  of  nothing  to 
suggest.  Beggar  is  disgusted)  You  don't  deserve  to  get 
through  the  door.  (Ponders)  We  must  think  of  some 
thing.  We  must ! 

POET.  I  can  think  of  nothing  but  that  he  shall  not  escape 
without  telling  us  the  secret. 

BEGGAR.  A  mouthful  of  wisdom.  That's  the  thing  —  he 
must  not  escape  without  telling  us  the  secret. 

ALL.     No,  not  without  telling  ! 

BEGGAR.  We  may  be  stiff  in  our  deaths  when  he  comes 
again. 

POET.     It's  our  only  chance. 

BEGGAR.     Hush  !     There  hk  is  ! 

[From  the  right  the  Satisfied  One  enters  slowly  and  stands 
watching  them,  sadly.  He  is  a  gray,  weary  old  man  in  a 
trailing  robe  of  silver-gray  with  a  wide  strip  of  scarlet  down 
the  back  and  front,  full  length.  All  smirk  and  smile  before 
him.  Then,  abashed,  each  slinks  to  his  rock  and  sits  there, 
staring  at  the  Satisfied  One,  who  now  sighs  wearily  and 
walks  slowly  across  the  stage. 

MAN.  He  did  not  even  glance  at  the  door.  I  shall  walk 
that  way  when  I  have  fame. 

BEGGAR  (excited).  Bother  the  way  you'll  walk.  He's  get 
ting  away  from  us ! 


172  HUNGER 


POET.     He  —  he  must  not  —  because  of  my  love  ! 
BEGGAR.     All  of  you  sit  there  like  bricks  !    (Scrambles  up  and 

runs  to  Satisfied  One,  tugging  at  his  robe)     Er —  er  —  er 

would  you  please  be  so  —  so  come-downish  as  to  let  us 

speak  with  you  ? 
SATISFIED  ONE  (facing  beggar).     Assuredly.     (Beggar  tries  to 

find  words  for  his  thoughts,  but  fails.     The  others  come  for 
ward  and  try,  too*,  but  with  the  same  result)     Then  you  really 

have  nothing  to  say  to  me,  after  all. 

[Turns  to  go.     All  become  agitated. 
BEGGAR  (bowing) .     Oh,  yes,  sire ;  but  we  —  we  have. 
GIRL  (appealingly) .     We  would  ask  you  something ! 
POET  (plaintively) .     And  you  must  answer  —  or  we  famish. 
MAN  (grimly).     You  must  tell  us. 
SATISFIED  ONE.     My  good  people,  what  is  it  you  wish  me  to 

tell  you  ? 

ALL.     How  to  open  the  door !     How  to  open  the  door ! 
SATISFIED  ONE.     And  why  do  you  wish  to  open  the  door  ? 
BEGGAR  (whispers  to  Poet) .     He's  trying  to  get  out  of  telling. 

He  always  asks  questions  like  that.     We  must  make  him 

tell! 

SATISFIED  ONE.     Well,  you  have  not  answered  me. 
GIRL.     Because  we  are  hungry  —  the  same  as  you  were  ! 
SATISFIED  ONE  (sadly) .     The  same  as  I  was  — 
BEGGAR.     Sure.     Didn't  you  go  through  the  door  and  get 

fed? 
SATISFIED  ONE.     Yes,  and  like  all  who  are  fed  there,  I  was 

gorged  with  food. 
BEGGAR  (to  the  others).     You  see,  I  told  you.     That's  why  he 

is  the  Satisfied  One.     That's  why  ! 
SATISFIED  ONE.     It  is  why  I  am  the  ZHVsatisfied  One. 
BEGGAR.     Nevertheless,  we'll  take  the  food.     (Tries  to  pull 

the  Satisfied  One  to  the  door)     Come,  show  us  how  you 

opened  the  door. 
SATISFIED  ONE  (resisting,  throws  off  Beggar) .     No !     I  will 

not! 

[All  rush  to  him  and  cling  to  his  robe  in  angry  appeal. 


HUNGER  173 


POET.     You  really  must  tell  us ! 

MAN.     You  must ! 

BEGGAR.     You  shall ! 

GIRL.     Tell  me,  for  I  hunger ! 

SATISFIED  ONE.  Better,  my  child,  to  hunger  than  to  know 
the  disillusionment  beyond  that  door. 

BEGGAR.     You  can  well  say  that.     Your  belly's  been  filled. 

SATISFIED  ONE.  Yes,  but  I  would  save  you  from  what  I 
learned  there. 

GIRL.     What  did  you  learn  ? 

SATISFIED  ONE.  That  abundance  of  food  never  satisfies  so 
much  as  just  a  little.  (Grunts  of  disapproval  from  the 
others)  Oh,  I  know  what  it  is  to  hunger  for  a  thing  —  and 
I  know  what  it  means  to  get  it.  You  satiate  yourself 
with  the  object  of  your  desire,  like  an  animal  wallowing  in 
the  mire ;  and  you  cannot  help  it,  especially  when  you 
have  hungered  long.  So  I  say,  better  a  great  hunger, 
with  a  little  food,  than  the  dullness  of  satisfaction. 

BEGGAR.  Aw,  I  know  the  taste  of  bread.  I'll  take  my 
chances. 

GIRL.     And  a  woman  never  could  have  too  many  clothes. 

SATISFIED  ONE.  But  the  quantities  of  food  in  there  will  not 
satisfy  so  much  as  the  hunger  you  have  now.  It  is  better 
just  to  have  a  little  of  the  good  things  of  life. 

BEGGAR.  Aw,  that's  turkey-dressing  talk.  How  did  you 
get  through  the  door?  That's  what  we  want  to  know. 
(Pulling  on  him)  How  did  you  ? 

SATISFIED  ONE.     I  will  not  tell  you. 

ALL.     Oh,  but  you  shall !     You  shall ! 

BEGGAR.     Come,  all  of  you !     We'll  make  him  show  us ! 
[They  grab  him  fiercely.     He  struggles  to  get  away,  but  they 
are  too  many  for  him.       They  drag  him  to  the  door  and  hurl 
him  against  it. 

BEGGAR.     Show  us  how  to  turn  that  knob  ! 

SATISFIED  ONE.  No  !  I  want  to  save  you  —  not  open  the 
door  to  your  destruction  ! 

BEGGAR.     Save  us  ?     Listen  to  the  man  ! 


174  HUNGER 


ALL.     We  will  get  in  !     We  will ! 

[Like  madmen,  they  pounce  upon  him,  pressing  him  against  the 

door. 
BEGGAR  (suddenly).     Oh,  it's   giving!     The  door's   giving! 

All  of  us  together  are  pushing  it  in  ! 
POET  (pushing  feebly) .     All  together  now  ! 
BEGGAR.     I  see  a  crack  into  the  golden  room ! 
GIRL.     It's  opening  !     We're  opening  the  door  ! 

[The  door  swings  inward,  partly  revealing  a  brilliant  golden 

room. 
SATISFIED  ONE  (barring  the  doorway) .     Do  not  enter  f    Oh,  I 

beg  of  you,  do  not ! 
BEGGAR.     Aw,   I  see  bread  —  now  for  it ! 

[Knocks  Satisfied  One  aside,  rushes  through  the  door  and  off 

left,  followed  pell-mell  by  the  others,  exclaiming  as  they  go : 

"Oh,  I  see  the  clothes  I  want!"  "Fame,  Fame!"    "Love, 

I  speak  to  you!" 

BEGGAR  (within  the  tower,  but  not  seen) .     Satisfied  at  last ! 
SATISFIED  ONE.     Satisfied?     Ha!     (Shakes  a  despairing  hand 

after  the  departed  ones)     Fools  !     Stupid  Fools  ! ! 

CURTAIN 


IN  THE  ZONE 

EUGENE   G.   O'NEILL 

MR.  EUGENE  G.  O'NEILL  was  born  October  16, 1888,  in  New 
York  City.  He  spent  one  year  at  Princeton  University 
(Class  of  1910),  after  which  he  became  secretary  of  a  small 
mail-order  concern  in  New  York  City.  In  1909  he  joined 
a  gold  prospecting  expedition  to  Spanish  Honduras.  He 
found  no  gold,  but  plenty  of  fever.  The  latter  part  of  the 
season  of  1910  he  worked  as  an  assistant  manager  of  a  theatri 
cal  company  on  the  road,  playing  in  all  "big"  towns  through 
the  Middle  West.  In  June  of  that  year  he  made  his  first 
voyage  as  a  sailor,  Boston  to  Buenos  Aires,  on  a  Norwegian 
bark  which  took  sixty-five  days  to  make  the  trip.  In  the 
Argentine  he  found  work  first  in  the  drafting  department  of 
the  Westinghouse  Electrical  Company  in  Buenos  Aires,  and 
then  in  the  Swift  Packing  Company's  plant  at  La  Plata. 
Later  he  worked  for  the  Singer  Sewing  Machine  Company 
in  Buenos  Aires.  He  made  his  second  trip  to  sea  on  a  British 
tramp,  Buenos  Aires  to  Durban,  South  Africa,  and  return. 
Finally  he  shipped  on  a  British  tramp  steamer  back  to  New 
York.  He  did  not  stay  in  New  York  long,  however,  but 
signed  as  an  able  seaman  —  he  had  been  an  ordinary  seaman 
before  —  on  the  S.S.  New  York  of  the  American  Line.  The 
New  York  was  later  laid  up  in  Southampton  for  repairs  and 
Mr.  O'Neill  was  transferred  to  the  Philadelphia  of  the  same 
line,  on  which  he  made  his  return  trip.  This  was  his  last 
experience  as  a  sailor. 

The  following  winter,  Mr.  O'Neill  played  a  part  in  his 
father's  tabloid  version  of  "Monte  Cristo"  on  the  Orpheum 


176  IN  THE  ZONE 


vaudeville  circuit  in  the  Far  West.  The  next  summer  and 
fall  he  worked  as  a  reporter  on  the  New  London,  Connecticut, 
Telegraph.  Soon  after,  in  1914,  he  began  to  write.  He 
studied  the  technique  of  the  drama  in  Professor  Baker's 
class  at  Harvard  the  next  winter,  and  since  then  he  has 
devoted  himself  exclusively  to  writing. 

He  has  written  seventeen  short  plays,  of  which  eleven  have 
been  produced.  The  eleven  are:  "Thirst'*,  "Bound  East 
for  Cardiff",  "Before  Breakfast",  "Fog",  "The  Sniper" 
(1916-1917);  "In  the  Zone",  "The  Long  Voyage  Home", 
"The  Rope",  "He"  (1917-1918);  "  Where  the  Cross  is  Made " 
and  "The  Moon  of  the  Caribbees  "  (1918-1919).  All  of  these 
have  been  produced  in  New  York,  and  many  have  been 
seen  in  Little  Theatres  throughout  the  country.  Mr.  O'Neill 
has  published  "The  Moon  of  the  Caribbees  and  Six  Other 
Plays  of  the  Sea",  and  "Fog  and  Other  One-Act  Plays." 
"In  the  Zone"  is  one  of  a  cycle  in  which  Mr.  O'Neill  has 
endeavored  to  portray  different  characteristic  incidents  of 
merchant-sailor  life.  He  uses  the  same  characters,  members 
of  the  crew  of  a  British  tramp  steamer,  in  each  of  the  plays ; 
and  although  each  play  is  complete  in  itself  and  is  in  no  way 
dependent  on  any  of  the  others  for  its  action  or  meaning, 
still  there  is  a  certain  connection  between  them.  The  other 
plays  of  the  cycle  are:  "Bound  East  for  Cardiff",  "He", 
"The  Long  Voyage  Home",  and  "The  Moon  of  the  Carib 
bees." 


IN  THE  ZONE 


BY  EUGENE  G.  O'NEILL 


"In  the  Zone"  was  originally  produced  by  the  Washington 
Square  Players,  October  31,  1917,  at  the  Comedy  Theatre, 
New  York. 

Original  Cast 
Seamen  of  the  tramp  steamer  (British)  Glencairn 

SMITTY,   the    "Duke."     Twenty-five  —  slender  —  his   face 

is  refined,  and  handsome  in  a  weak  way.     He  wears  a 

short  blond  mustache Frederick  Roland 

DAVIS.  Middle-aged  —  thin  face  with  a  black  mustache. 

Robert  Strange 

OLSON.  Middle-aged  —  short  stocky  Swede  with  a  bushy 

blond  mustache William  Gillette 

SCOTTY.  Just  past  twenty  —  thin  and  wiry  —  sandy 

hair Eugene  Lincoln 

IVAN.  In  the  thirties  —  hulking  and  awkward,  with  a 

broad,  stupid,  swarthy  face  ....  Edward  Balzerit 
YANK.  Twenty-eight  —  tall,  well-built,  dark,  and  rather 

good-looking  in  a  tough  sort  of  way  .  .  .  Gay  Strong 
DRISCOLL.  Thirty  —  a  powerfully-built  Irishman  with  a 

battered,  good-natured  face Arthur  Hohl 

COCKY.  Fifty  —  a  wizened  runt  of  a  man  with  a  straggling 

wisp  of  gray  mustache Rienzi  de  Cordova 


COPTBIGHT,    1919,   BY   BONI   &  LlVEBIGHT 

All  rights  reserved. 

Reprinted  from  "  Moon  of  the  Caribbees  and  Six  Other  Plays  of  the  Sea  "  by 
permission  of  Boni  &  Liveright. 

Application  for  the  right  of  performing  "In  the  Zone"  must  be  made  to  Mr. 
Eugene  O'Neill,  Provincetown,  Massachusetts. 


IN  THE   ZONE 

SCENE.  The  seamen' 's  forecastle  of  the  British  tramp  steamer 
Glencairn,  an  irregular-shaped  compartment,  the  sides  of  which 
almost  meet  at  the  far  end  to  form  a  triangle.  Sleeping  bunks 
about  six  feet  long,  ranged  three  deep,  with  a  space  of  two  feet 
separating  the  upper  from  the  lower,  are  built  against  the  sides. 
On  the  right,  above  the  bunks,  three  or  four  portholes  covered  with 
black  cloth  can  be  seen.  In  front  of  the  bunks,  rough  wooden 
benches.  Over  the  bunks  on  the  left,  a  lamp  in  a  bracket.  In 
the  left  foreground,  a  doorway.  On  the  floor  near  it,  a  pail  with 
a  tin  dipper.  Oilskins  are  hanging  from  hooks  near  the  doorway. 

The  far  side  of  the  forecastle  is  so  narrow  that  it  contains  only 
one  series  of  bunks.  In  under  the  bunks  a  glimpse  can  be  had 
of  sea  chests,  suitcases,  sea  boots,  etc.,  jammed  in  indiscrimi 
nately. 

The  lamp  is  not  lit.  A  lantern  in  the  middle  of  the  floor, 
turned  down  very  low,  throws  a  dim  light  around  the  place. 
Five  men  —  Scotty,  Ivan,  Olson,  Smitty,  and  the  Norwegian, 
Paul — are  in  their  bunks,  apparently  asleep.  There  is  no  sound 
but  the  deep  breathing  of  the  sleepers  and  the  rustling  of  the  oil 
skins  against  each  other  as  the  ship  rolls.  It  is  about  ten  minutes 
of  twelve  in  the  night.  The  time  is  the  spring  of  1915. 

Smitty  turns  slowly  in  his  bunk,  and,  leaning  out  over  the  side, 
looks  from  one  to  another  of  the  men  as  if  he  were  assuring^ 
himself  they  were  asleep.  Then  he  climbs  carefully  out  of  his 
bunk  and  stands  in  the  middle  of  the  forecastle,  fully  dressed, 
but  in  his  stocking  feet,  glancing  around  him  suspiciously.  Re 
assured,  he  leans  down  and  cautiously  pulls  out  a  suitcase  from 
under  the  bunks  in  front  of  him. 


180  IN  THE  ZONE 


Just  at  that  moment  Davis  appears  in  the  doorway,  carrying 
a  large  steaming  coffee  pot  in  his  hand.  He  stops  short  when  he 
sees  Smitty.  A  puzzled  expression  comes  over  his  face,  followed 
by  one  of  suspicion,  and  he  retreats  farther  back  in  the  alleyway, 
where  he  can  watch  Smitty  without  being  seen. 

All  of  the  latter' s  movements  indicate  a  fear  of  discovery.  He 
takes  out  a  small  bunch  of  keys  and  unlocks  the  suitcase,  making 
a  slight  noise  as  he  does  so.  Scotty  wakes  up  and  peers  at  him 
over  the  side  of  his  bunk.  Smitty  opens  the  suitcase  and  takes 
out  a  small  black  tin  box.  Scotty's  eyes  nearly  pop  out  of  his 
head  with  fright  when  he  sees  this,  but  he  shuts  them  tight  as 
Smitty  turns  around,  and  opens  them  again  in  time  to  see  him 
place  the  black  box  carefully  under  his  mattress.  Smitty 
then  climbs  back  into  his  bunk,  taking  great  care  to  make  no 
noise,  closes  his  eyes,  and  commences  to  snore  loudly. 

Davis  enters  the  forecastle,  places  the  coffee  pot  beside  the 
lantern,  and  goes  from  one  to  the  other  of  the  sleepers  —  with  the 
exception  of  Paul,  who  is  day  man  —  and  shakes  them  vigorously, 
saying  to  each  in  a  low  voice,  "Near  eight  bells,  Scotty.  Arise 
and  shine,  Ollie.  Eight  bells,  Ivan."  He  stops  before  Smitty's 
bunk  and  looks  at  him  with  a  keen  glance  of  mistrust  which  is 
both  curious  and  timid.  He  reaches  out  his  hand  to  grab 
Smitty's  shoulder,  hesitates,  and  finally  ends  up  by  saying 
gruffly:  "Eight  bells,  Smitty."  Upon  which  he  sits  down  on 
a  bench  as  far  away  from  Smitty  as  the  narrow  forecastle  will 
permit,  glancing  at  him  every  moment  out  of  the  corner  of  his 
eye. 

Smitty  yawns  loudly  with  a  great  pretence  of  having  been  dead 
asleep.  All  the  rest  of  the  men  tumble  out  of  their  bunks, 
stretching  and  gaping,  and  commence  to  pull  on  their  shoes. 
Except  for  these,  they  are  fully  dressed.  Scotty  betrays  great 
inward  uneasiness,  staring  suspiciously  at  Smitty  whenever  the 
latter* s  back  is  turned. 

They  go  one  by  one  to  the  cupboard  which  is  near  the  open 
doorway,  front,  and  take  out  their  cups  and  spoons,  put  sugar 
in  the  cups,  grab  a  couple  of  sea-biscuits,  and  sit  down  together 
on  the  benches.  The  coffee  pot  is  passed  around  and  placed 


IN  THE  ZONE  181 


back  again  beside  the  lantern.     They  munch  their  Uscuits'and 

sip  their  coffee  in  a  dull  silence. 

DAVIS  (suddenly  jumping  to  his  feet  —  nervously).     Where's 
that  air  comin'  from? 
[All  are  startled  and  look  at  him  wonderingly. 

OLSON  (grumpily).     What  air?     I  don't  feel  not'ing. 

DAVIS  (excitedly).  I  kin  feel  it  —  a  draft.  (He  stands  on 
the  bench  and  looks  around  —  suddenly  exploding)  Damn 
fool  square-head  !  (He  leans  over  the  upper  bunk  in  which 
Paul  is  sleeping  and  slams  the  porthole  shut)  I  got  a  good 
notion  to  report  him.  Serve  him  bloody  well  right ! 
What's  the  use  o'  blindin'  the  ports  when  that  thick-head 
goes  an'  leaves  'em  open  ? 

OLSON   (yawning  —  too  sleepy  to  be  aroused  by  anything  — 
carelessly).     Dey  don't  see  what  little  light  go  out  yust 
one  port. 

SCOTTY  (protestingly) .  Dinna  be  a  loon,  Ollie  !  D'ye  no  ken 
the  dangerr  o'  showin'  a  licht  wi'  a  pack  o'  submarrines 
lyin'  aboot? 

IVAN  (shaking  his  shaggy  ox-like  head  in  an  emphatic  affirm 
ative}.  Dot's  right,  Scotty.  I  don'  li-ike  blow  up,  no,  by 
devil ! 

SMITTY  (his  manner  slightly  contemptuous).  I  don't  think 
there's  much  danger  of  meeting  any  of  their  submarines, 
not  until  we  get  into  the  war  zone,  at  any  rate. 

DAVIS  (he  and  Scotty  look  at  Smitty  suspiciously  —  harshly) . 
You  don't,  eh?  (He  lowers  his  voice  and  speaks  slowly) 
Well,  we're  in  the  war  zone  right  this  minit  if  you  wants  to 
know. 

[The  effect  of  this  speech  is  instantaneous.     All  sit  bolt  up 
right  on  their  benches  and  stare  at  Davis. 

SMITTY.     How  do  you  know,  Davis  ? 

DAVIS  (angrily).     'Cos  Drisc  heard  the  First  send  the  Third 
below  to  wake  the  skipper  when  we  'fetched  the  zone  — 
bout  five  bells,  it  was.     Now  whata  y'  got  to  say  ? 

SMITTY  (conciliatingly) .  Oh,  I  wasn't  doubting  your  word, 
Davis ;  but  you  know  they're  not  pasting  up  bulletins  to 


182  IN   THE   ZONE 


let  the  crew  know  when  the  zone  is  reached  —  especially 

on  ammunition  ships  like  this. 
IVAN  (decidedly}.     I  don'  li-ike  dees  voyage.     Next  time  I 

ship  on  windjammer  Boston  to  River  Plate,  load  with 

wood  only  so  it  float,  by  golly  ! 
OLSON  (fretfully).     I  hope  British  navy  blow  'em  to  hell, 

those  submarines,  py  damn ! 
SCOTTY  (looking  at  Smitty,  who  is  staring  at  the  doorway  in  a 

dream,  his  chin  on  his  hands.     Meaningly).     It's  no  the 

submarrines  only  we've  to  fear,  I'm  thinkin',  Ollie. 
DAVIS  (assenting  eagerly).     That's  no  lie,  Scotty. 
OLSON.     You  mean  the  mines  ? 
SCOTTY.     I  wasna  thinkin*  o'  mines  eitherr. 
DAVIS.     There's  many  a  good  ship  blown  up  and  at  the  bot 
tom  of  the  sea,  Ollie,  what  never  hit  no  mine  or  torpedo. 
SCOTTY.     Did  ye  neverr  read  of  the  Gerrman  spies  and  the 
.  dirrty  work  they're  doin'  all  the  war  ? 

[He  and  Davis  both  glance  at  Smitty,  who  is  deep  in  thought 

and  is  not  listening  to  the  conversation. 
DAVIS.     An'  the  clever  way  they  fool  you  ! 
OLSON.     Sure ;  I  read  it  in  paper  many  time. 
DAVIS.     Well  —  (He  is  about  to  speak,  but  hesitates  and  finishes 

lamely)  You  got  to  watch  out,  that's  all  I  says. 
IVAN  (drinking  the  last  of  his  coffee  and  slamming  his  fist  on 

the  bench  —  explosively).     I  tell  you  dis  rotten  coffee  give 

me  belly-ache,  yes  ! 

[They  all  look  at  him  in  amused  disgust. 
SCOTTY  (sardonically).     Dinna  fret  aboot  it,  Ivan.     If  we 

blow  up  ye'll  no  be  mindin'  the  pain  in  your  middle. 

[Yank  enters.     He  wears  dungarees  and  a  heavy  jersey. 
YANK.     Eight  bells,  fellers. 
IVAN  (stupidly).     I  don'  hear  bell  ring. 
YANK.     No,   and  yuh  won't  hear  any  ring,  yuh  boob  — 

(lowering  his  voice  unconsciously)  now  we're  in  the  war 

zone. 

OLSON  (anxiously) .     Is  the  boats  all  ready  ? 
YANK.     Sure ;  we  can  lower  'em  in  a  second. 


IN   THE   ZONE  183 


DAVIS.  A  lot  o'  good  the  boats'll  do,  with  us  loaded  deep 
with  all  kinds  o'  dynamite  and  stuff  the  like  o'  that !  If 
a  torpedo  hits  this  hooker  we'll  all  be  in  hell  b'fore  you  could 
wink  your  eye. 

YANK.  They  ain't  goin'  to  hit  us,  see?  That's  my  dope. 
Whose  wheel  is  it? 

iv AN, (sullenly).     My  wheel. 
[He  lumbers  out. 

YANK.     And  whose  lookout  ? 

OLSON.     Mine,  I  tink. 
[He  follows  Ivan. 

YANK  (scornfully).  A  hell  of  a  lot  of  use  keepin'  a  lookout ! 
We  couldn't  run  away  or  fight  if  we  wanted  to.  (To 
Scotty  and  Smitty)  Better  look  up  the  bo'sun  or  the  Fourth, 
you  two,  and  let  'em  see  you're  awake.  (Scotty  goes  to 
the  doorway  and  turns  to  wait  for  Smitty,  who  is  still  in  the 
same  position,  head  on  hands,  seemingly  unconscious  of  every 
thing.  Yank  slaps  him  roughly  on  the  shoulder  and  he  comes 
to  with  a  start)  Aft  and  report,  Duke  !  What's  the  matter 
with  yuh  —  in  a  dope  dream  ?  (Smitty  goes  out  after 
Scotty  without  answering.  Yank  looks  after  him  with  a 
frown)  He's  a  queer  guy.  I  can't  figger  him  out. 

DAVIS.  Nor  no  one  else.  (Lowering  his  voice  —  meaningly) 
An'  he's  liable  to  turn  out  queerer  than  any  of  us  think,  if 
we  ain't  careful. 

YANK  (suspiciously).     What  d'yuh  mean? 

{ They  are  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  Driscoll  and  Cocky. 

CO'CKY  (protestingly) .     Blimey  if  I  don't  fink  I'll  put  in  this 
'ere  watch  ahtside  on  deck.     (He  and  Driscoll  go  over  and 
get  their  cups)     I  down't  want  to  be  caught  in  this  'ole  if 
they  'its  us. 
[He  pours  out  coffee. 

DRISCOLL  (pouring  his).  Divil  a  bit  ut  wud  matther  where 
ye  arre.  Ye'd  be  blown  to  smithereens  b'fore  ye  cud  say 
your  name.  (He  sits  down,  overturning  as  he  does  so  the 
untouched  cup  of  coffee  which  Smitty  had  forgotten  and  left 
on  the  bench.  They  all  jump  nervously  as  the  tin  cup  hits  the 


184  IN   THE   ZONE 


floor  with  a  bang.     Driscoll  flies  into  an  unreasoning  rage) 
Who's  the  dirty  scut  left  this  cup  where  a  man  'ud  sit  on  ut  ? 

DAVIS.     It's  Smitty's. 

DRISCOLL  (kicking  the  cup  across  the  forecastle) .  Does  he  think 
he's  too  much  av  a  bloody  gentleman  to  put  his  own  away 
loike  the  rist  av  us  ?  If  he  does,  I'm  the  bye'll  beat  that 
noshun  out  av  his  head. 

COCKY.  Be  the  airs  'e  puts  on  you'd  think  'e  was  the  Prince 
of  Wales.  Wot's  'e  doin'  on  a  ship,  I  arsks  yer?  'E 
ain't  now  good  as  a  sailor,  is  'e  ?  —  dawdlin'  abaht  on  deck 
like  a  chicken  wiv  'is  'ead  cut  orf ! 

YANK  (good-naturedly).  Aw,  the  Duke's  all  right.  S'posin' 
he  did  f erget  his  cup  —  what's  the  dif  ?  (Pie  picki  up  the 
cup  and  puts  it  away  —  with  a  grin)  This  war  zone  stuff's 
got  yer  goat,  Drisc  —  and  yours  too,  Cocky  —  and  I 
ain't  cheerin'  much  fur  it  myself  neither. 

COCKY  (with  a  sigh).  Blimey,  it  ain't  no  bleedin'  joke,  it 
ain't,  yer  first  trip,  to  know  as  there's  a  ship  full  of  shells 
li'ble  to  go  'orf  in  under  your  bloomin'  feet,  as  you  might 
say,  if  we  gets  'it  be  a  torpedo  or  mine.  (With  sudden 
savagery)  Calls  theyselves  'uman  bein's,  too !  Blarsted 
'Uns ! 

DRISCOLL  (gloomily).  'Tis  me  last  trip  in  the  bloody  Zone, 
God  help  me.  The  divil  take  their  twenty-foive  per  cent 
bonus  —  and  be  drowned  like  a  rat  in  a  trap  in  the  bar 
gain,  maybe. 

DAVIS.  Wouldn't  be  so  bad  if  she  wasn't  carryin'  ammunition. 
Them's  the  kind  the  subs  is  layin'  for. 

DRISCOLL  (irritably) .  Fur  the  love  av  hivin,  don't  be  talkin' 
about  ut.  I'm  sick  wid  thinkin'  and  jumpin'  at  iviry  bit 
av  a  noise. 

[There  is  a  pause  during  which  they  all  stare  gloomily  at  the 
floor. 

YANK.  Hey,  Davis,  what  was  you  sayin*  about  Smitty  when 
they  come  in  ? 

DAVIS  (with  a  great  air  of  mystery).  I'll  tell  you  in  a  minit. 
I  want  to  wait  an'  see  if  he's  comin'  back.  (Impressively) 


IN  THE   ZONE  185 


You  won't  be  callin'  him  all  right  when  you  hears  what 
I  seen  with  my  own  eyes.     (He  adds  with  an  air  of  satis 
faction)     An'  you  won't  be  feelin'  no  safer,  neither. 
[  They  all  look  at  him  with  puzzled  glances  full  of  a  vague 
apprehension. 
DRISCOLL  (fiercely).     God  blarst  ut ! 

[He  fills  his  pipe  and  lights  it.     The  others,  with  an  air  of 

remembering  something   they  had  forgotten,    do  the  same. 

Scotty  enters. 
SCOTTY   (in  awed  tones).     Mon,  but  it's  clear  ootside  the 

nicht !     Like  day. 

DAVIS  (in  low  tones).     Where's  Smitty,  Scotty? 
SCOTTY.     Out   on   the  hatch   starin'   at   the   moon    like    a 

mon  half-daft. 

DAVIS.     Kin  you  see  him  from  the  doorway? 
DAVIS  (goes  to  doorway  and  carefully  peeks  out).     Aye;   he's 

still  there. 
DAVIS.     Keep  your  eyes  on  him  for  a  moment.     I've  got 

something  I  wants  to  tell  the  boys  and  I  don't  want  him 

walkin'  in  in  the  middle  of  it.     Give  a  shout  if  he  starts 

this  way. 
SCOTTY  (with  suppressed  excitement).     Aye,  I'll  watch  him. 

And  I've  somethin'  myself  to  tell  aboot  his  Lordship. 
DRISCOLL  (impatienthj).     Out  wid  ut !     You're  talkin'  more 

than  a  pair  av  auld  women  wud  be,  standin'  in  the  road, 

and  gettin'  no  further  along. 
DAVIS.     Listen  !     You  'member  when  I  went  to  git  the  coffee, 

Yank? 

YANK.     Sure,  I  do. 
DAVIS.     Well,  I  brings  it  down  here  same  as  usual  and  got  as 

far  as  the  door  there  when  I  sees  him. 
YANK.     Smitty  ? 
DAVIS.     Yes,  Smitty  !     He  was  standin'  in  the  middle  of  the 

fo'c's'tle  there   (pointing)   lookin'   around  sneakin'-like  at 

Ivan  and  Ollie  and  the  rest,  'sif  he  wants  to  make  certain 

they're  asleep. 

[He  pauses  significantly,  looking  from  one  to  the  other  of  his 


186  IN   THE   ZONE 


listeners.  Scotty  is  nervously  dividing  his  attention  between 
Smitty  on  the  hatch  outside  and  Davis*  story,  fairly  bursting 
to  break  in  with  his  own  revelations. 

YANK  (impatiently) .     What  of  it  ? 

DAVIS.  Listen !  He  was  standin'  right  there  —  (pointing 
again)  in  his  stockin'  feet  —  no  shoes  on,  mind,  so  he 
wouldn't  make  no  noise ! 

YANK  (spitting  disgustedly) .     Aw  ! 

DAVIS  (not  heeding  the  interruption).  I  seen  right  away 
somethin'  on  the  queer  was  up,  so  I  slides  back  into  the 
alleyway  where  I  kin  see  him  but  he  can't  see  me.  After 
he  makes  sure  they're  all  asleep  he  goes  in  under  the  bunks 
there  —  bein'  careful  not  to  raise  a  noise,  mind!  —  an' 
takes  out  his  bag  there.  (By  this  time  every  one,  Yank  in 
cluded,  is  listening  breathlessly  to  his  story)  Then  he  fishes 
in  his  pocket  an'  takes  out  a  bunch  o'  keys  an'  kneels 
down  beside  the  bag  an'  opens  it. 

SCOTTY  (unable  to  keep  silent  longer).  Mon,  didn't  I  see  him 
do  that  same  thing  wi'  these  two  eyes.  'Twas  just  that 
moment  I  woke  and  spied  him. 

DAVIS  (surprised,  and  a  bit  nettled  to  have  to  share  his  story  with 
any  one).  Oh,  you  seen  him  too,  eh?  (To  the  others) 
Then  Scotty  kin  tell  you  if  I'm  lyin'  or  not. 

DRISCOLL.     An'  what  did  he  do  whin  he'd  the  bag  opened  ? 

DAVIS.  He  bends  down  and  reaches  out  his  hand  sort  o' 
scared-like,  like  it  was  somethin'  dang'rous  he  was  after, 
an'  feels  round  in  under  his  duds  —  hidden  in  under  his 
duds  an'  wrapped  up  in  'em,  it  was  —  an'  he  brings  out  a 
black  iron  box ! 

COCKY  (looking  around  him  with  a  frightened  glance).  Gawd 
blimey ! 

[The  others  likewise  betray  their  uneasiness,  shuffling  their 
feet  nervously. 

DAVIS.     Ain't  that  right,  Scotty  ? 

SCOTTY.     Right  as  rain,  I'm  tellin'  ye  ! 

DAVIS  (to  the  others  with  an  air  of  satisfaction).  There  you 
are !  (Lowering  his  voice)  An'  then  what  d'ycm  suppose 


IN   THE   ZONE  187 


he  did?     Sneaks  to  his  bunk  an*  slips  the  black  box  in 
under  his  mattress  —  in  under  his  mattress,  mind !  - 

YANK.     And  it's  there  now? 

DAVIS.     Corse  it  is  ! 

[Yank  starts  toward  Smitty's  bunk.     Driscoll  grabs  him  by 
the  arm. 

DRISCOLL.     Don't  be  touchin'  ut,  Yank ! 

YANK.  Yuh  needn't  worry.  I  ain't  goin'  to  touch  it.  (He 
pulls  up  Smitty's  mattress  and  looks  down.  The  others  stare 
at  him,  holding  their  breaths.  He  turns  to  them,  trying  hard 
to  assume  a  careless  tone)  It's  there,  aw  right. 

COCKY  (miserably  upset).  I'm  gointer  'op  it  aht  on  deck. 
(He  gets  up,  but  Driscoll  putts  him  down  again.  Cocky  pro 
tests)  It  fair  guvs  me  the  trembles  sittin'  still  in  'ere. 

DRISCOLL  (scornfully).  Are  ye  frightened,  ye  toad?  'Tis 
a  hell  av  a  thing  fur  grown  men  to  be  shiverin'  loike  childer 
at  a  bit  av  a  black  box.  (Scratching  his  head  in  uneasy 
perplexity)  Still,  ut's  damn  queer,  the  looks  av  ut. 

DAVIS  (sarcastically).     A  bit  of  a  black  box,  eh?     How  big 
d'you  think  them  —  (he  hesitates)  —  things  has  to  be  — 
big  as  this  fo'c's'le  ? 

YANK  (in  a  voice  meant  to  be  reassuring) .  Aw,  hell !  I'll  bet 
it  ain't  nothin'  but  some  coin  he's  saved  he's  got  locked 
up  in  there. 

DAVIS  (scornfully).  That's  likely,  ain't  it?  Then  why  does 
he  act  so  s'picious  ?  He's  been  on  ship  near  a  year,  ain't 
he?  He  knows  damn  well  there  ain't  no  thiefs  in  this 
fo'c's'le,  don't  he  ?  An'  you  know  'swell  's  I  do  he  didn't 
have  no  money  when  he  came  on  board  an'  he  ain't  saved 
none  since.  Don't  you?  (Yank  doesn't  answer)  Listen! 
D'you  know  what  he  done  after  he  put  that  thing  in  under 
his  mattress  ?  —  an'  Scotty'll  tell  you  if  I  ain't  speakin' 
truth.  He  looks  round  to  see  if  any  one's  woke  up. 

SCOTT Y.     I  clapped  my  eyes  shut  when  he  turned  round. 

DAVIS.  An*  then  he  crawls  into  his  bunk  an'  shuts  his  eyes, 
an'  starts  in  snorin,  pretendin*  he  was  asleep,  mind ! 

SCOTTY.     Aye,  I  could  hear  him. 


188  IN  THE  ZONE 


DAVIS.  An'  when  I  goes  to  call  him  I  don't  even  shake  him. 
I  just  says:  "Eight  bells,  Smitty"  in  a'most  a  whisper- 
like,  an*  up  he  gets  yawnin'  an'  stretchin'  fit  to  kill  hisself 
'sif  he'd  been  dead  asleep. 

COCKY.     Gawd  blimey ! 

DRISCOLL  (shaking  his  head).  Ut  looks  bad,  divil  a  doubt 
av  ut. 

DAVIS  (excitedly).  An'  now  I  come  to  think  of  it,  there's  the 
porthole.  How'd  it  come  to  git  open,  tell  me  that?  I 
know'd  well  Paul  never  opened  it.  Ain't  he  grumblin' 
about  bein'  cold  all  the  time  ? 

SCOTTY.  The  mon  that  opened  it  meant  no  good  to  this 
ship,  whoever  he  was. 

YANK  (sourly).  What  porthole?  What're  yuh  talkin' 
about  ? 

DAVIS  (pointing  over  Paul's  bunk).  There.  It  was  open 
when  I  come  in.  I  felt  the  cold  air  on  my  neck  an'  shut  it. 
It  would'a  been  dear's  a  lighthouse  to  any  sub  that  was 
watchin'  —  an'  we  s'posed  to  have  all  the  ports  blinded ! 
Who'd  do  a  dirty  trick  like  that  ?  It  wasn't  none  of  us, 
nor  Scotty  here,  nor  Olson,  nor  Ivan.  Who  would  it  be, 
then  ? 

COCKY  (angrily).     Must'a  been  'is  bloody  Lordship. 

DAVIS.  For  all's  we  know  he  might'a  been  signallin'  with  it. 
They  does  it  like  that  by  winkin'  a  light.  Ain't  you  read 
how  they  gets  caught  doin'  it  in  London  an*  on  the  coast  ? 

COCKY  (firmly  convinced  now).  An'  wots  'e  doin'  aht  alone 
on  the  'atch  —  keepin'  'isself  clear  of  us  like  'e  was  afraid  ? 

DRISCOLL.     Kape  your  eye  on  him,  Scotty. 

SCOTTY.     There's  no  a  move  oot  o'  him. 

YANK  (in  irritated  perplexity).  But,  hell,  ain't  he  an  Eng 
lishman  ?  What'd  he  want  a  — 

DAVIS.  English?  How  d'we  know  he's  English?  Cos  he 
talks  it?  That  ain't  no  proof.  Ain't  you  read  in  the 
papers  how  all  them  German  spies  they  been  catchin'  in 
England  has  been  livin'  there  for  ten,  often  as  not  twenty 
years,  an'  talks  English  as  good's  any  one  ?  An'  look  here, 


IN  THE  ZONE  189 


ain't  you  noticed  he  don't  talk  natural  ?  He  talks  it  too 
damn  good,  that's  what  I  mean.  He  don't  talk  exactly 
like  a  toff,  does  he,  Cocky  ? 

COCKY.     Not  like  any  toff  as  I  ever  met  up  wiv. 

DAVIS.  No;  an'  he  don't  talk  it  like  us,  that's  certain. 
An'  he  don't  look  English.  An'  what  d'we  know  about 
him  when  you  come  to  look  at  it  ?  Nothin' !  He  ain't 
ever  said  where  he  comes  from  or  why.  All  we  knows  is 
he  ships  on  here  in  London  six  months  b'fore  the  war  starts, 
as  an  A.B.  —  stole  his  papers  most  lik'ly  —  when  he  don't 
know  how  to  box  the  compass,  hardly.  Ain't  that  queer 
in  itself  ?  An'  was  he  ever  open  with  us  like  a  good  ship 
mate  ?  No ;  he's  always  had  that  sly  air  about  him  's  if 
he  was  hidin'  somethin'. 

DRISCOLL  (slapping  his  thigh  —  angrily) .  Divil  take  me  if 
I  don't  think  ye  have  the  truth  av  ut,  Davis. 

COCKY  (scornfully).  Lettin'  on  be  'is  silly  airs,  and  all,  'e's 
the  son  of  a  blarsted  earl  or  somethink ! 

DAVIS.  An'  the  name  he  calls  hisself  —  Smith  !  I'd  risk  a 
quid  of  my  next  pay  day  that  his  real  name  is  Schmidt,  if 
the  truth  was  known. 

YANK  (evidently  fighting  against  his  own  conviction).  Aw, 
say,  you  guys  give  me  a  pain  !  What'd  they  want  puttin' 
a  spy  on  this  old  tub  for  ? 

DAVIS  (shaking  his  head  sagely).  They're  deep  ones,  an' 
there's  a  lot  o'  things  a  sailor'll  see  in  the  ports  he  puts  in 
ought  to  be  useful  to  'em.  An'  if  he  kin  signal  to  'em  an' 
they  blows  us  up  it's  one  ship  less,  ain't  it?  (Lowering 
his  voice  and  indicating  Smitty's  bunk)  Or  if  he  blows  us 
up  hisself. 

SCOTTY  (in  alarmed  tones).  Hush,  mon  !  Here  he  comes  ! 
[Scotty  hurries  over  to  a  bench  and  sits  down.  A  thick  silence 
settles  over  the  forecastle.  The  men  look  from  one  to  another 
with  uneasy  glances.  Smitty  enters  and  sits  down  beside  his 
bunk.  He  is  seemingly  unaware  of  the  dark  glances  of  sus 
picion  directed  at  him  from  all  sides.  He  slides  his  hand  back 
stealthily  over  his  mattress  and  his  fingers  move,  evidently  feel- 


190  IN  THE  ZONE 


ing  to  make  sure  the  box  is  still  there.  The  others  follow  this 
movement  carefully  with  quick  looks  out  of  the  corners  of  their 
eyes.  Their  attitudes  grow  tense  as  if  they  were  about  to 
spring  at  him.  Satisfied  the  box  is  safe,  Smitty  draws  his 
hand  away  slowly  and  utters  a  sigh  of  relief. 

SMITTY  (in  a  casual  tone  ichich  to  them  sounds  sinister).  It's  a 
good  light  night  for  the  subs  if  there's  any  about. 
[For  a  moment  he  sits  staring  in  front  of  him.  Finally  he 
seems  to  sense  the  hostile  atmosphere  of  the  forecastle  and 
looks  from  one  to  the  other  of  the  men  in  surprise.  All  of 
them  avoid  his  eyes.  He  sighs  with  a  puzzled  expression  and 
gets  up  and  walks  out  of  the  doorway.  There  is  silence  for  a 
moment  after  his  departure  and  then  a  storm  of  excited  talk 
breaks  loose. 

DAVIS.     Did  you  see  him  feelin'  if  it  was  there  ? 

COCKY.  'E  ain't  arf  a  sly  one  wiv  'is  talk  of  submarines, 
Gawd  blind  'im ! 

SCOTTY.     Did  ye  see  the  sneekin'  looks  he  gave  us  ? 

DRISCOLL.  If  ivir  I  saw  black  shame  on  a  man's  face  'twas 
on  his  whin  he  sat  there ! 

YANK  (thoroughly  convinced  at  last).  He  looked  bad  to  me. 
He's  a  crook,  aw  right. 

DAVIS  (excitedly).  What'll  we  do?  We  gotter  do  somethin' 
quick  or  — 

[He  is  interrupted  by  the  sound  of  something  hitting  against 
the  port  side  of  the  forecastle  with  a  dull,  heavy  thud.  The 
men  start  to  their  feet  in  wild-eyed  terror  and  turn  as  if  they 
were  going  to  rush  for  the  deck.  They  stand  that  way  for  a 
strained  moment,  scarcely  breathing,  and  listening  intently. 

YANK  (with  a  sickly  smile).     Hell !     It's  on'y  a  piece  of  drift 
wood  or  a  floatin'  log. 
[He  sits  down  again. 

DAVIS  (sarcastically).  Or  a  mine  that  didn't  go  of  —  that 
time  —  or  a  piece  o'  wreckage  from  some  ship  they've  sent 
to  Davy  Jones. 

COCKY  (mopping  his  brow  with  a  trembling  hand) .  Blimey ! 
[He  sinks  back  weakly  on  a  bench. 


IN  THE   ZONE  191 


DRISCOLL  (furiously).  God  blarst  ut!  No  man  at  all  cud 
be  puttin'  up  wid  the  loike  av  this  —  an*  I'm  not  wan  to 
be  fearin'  anything  or  any  man  in  the  worrld'll  stand  up 
to  me  face  to  face;  but  this  divil's  thrickery  in  thedarrk 
—  (he  starts  for  Smitty's  bunk)  I'll  throw  ut  out  wan  av  the 
portholes  an'  be  done  wid  ut. 
[He  reaches  toward  the  mattress. 

SCOTT Y  (grabbing  his  arm  —  wildly).     Arre  ye  daft,  mon? 
DAVIS.     Don't  monkey  with  it,  Drisc.     I  knows  what  to  do. 
Bring  the  bucket  o'  water  here,  Yank,  will  you?     (Yank 
gets  it  and  brings  it  over  to  Davis)     An'  you,  Scotty,  see  if 
he's  back  on  the  hatch. 
SCOTTY  (cautiously  peering  out).     Aye,  he's  sittin'  there  the 

noo. 

DAVIS.     Sing  out  if  he  makes  a  move.     Lift  up  the  mat 
tress,  Drisc,  —  careful  now !     (Driscoll  does  so  with  in 
finite  caution)     Take  it  out,  Yank  —  careful  —  don't  shake 
it  now,  for  Christ's  sake  !     Here  —  put  it  in  the  water  - 
easy  !     There,  that's  fixed  it !     ( They  all  sit  down  with  great 
sighs  of  relief)     The  water'll  git  in  and  spoil  it. 
DRISCOLL  (slapping  Davis  on  the  back).     Good  wurrk  for  ye, 
Davis,  ye  scut !     (He  spits  on  his  hands  aggressively)     An' 
now  what's  to  be  done  wid  that  blackhearted  thraitor  ? 
COCKY  (belligerently).     Guv  'im  a  shove  in  the  marf  and 

'eave  'im  over  the  side ! 
DAVIS.     An'  serve  him  right ! 
YANK.     Aw  say,  give  him  a  chance.     Yuh  can't  prove  nothin' 

till  yuh  find  out  what's  in  there. 

DRISCOLL    (heatedly).     Is   ut   more   proof   ye'd    be   needin' 
afther  what  we've  seen  an'  heard  ?     Then  listen  to  me  - 
an'  ut's  Driscoll  talkin'  —  if  there's  divilmint  in  that  box 
an*  we  see  plain  'twas  his  plan  to  murrdher  his  own  ship 
mates  that  have  served  him  fair  —  (he  raises  his  fist)  I'll 
choke  his  rotten  hearrt  out  wid  me  own  hands,  an'  over 
the  side  wid  him,  and  one  man  missin'  in  the  mornin'. 
DAVIS.     An'  noone  the  wiser.     He's  the  balmy  kind  what 
commits  suicide. 


192  IN  THE  ZONE 


COCKY.     They  'angs  spies  ashore. 

YANK  (resentfully).     If  he's  done  what  yuh  think  I'll  croak 

him  myself.     Is  that  good  enough  for  yuh  ? 
DRISCOLL  (looking  down  at  the  box).     How'll  we  be  openin' 

this,  I  wonder  ? 

SCOTTY  (from  the  doorway  —  warningly) .  He's  standin' 
up. 

DAVIS.  We'll  take  his  keys  away  from  him  when  he  comes 
in.  Quick,  Drisc!  You  an'  Yank  get  beside  the  door 
and  grab  him.  (They  get  on  either  side  of  the  door.  Davis 
snatches  a  small  coil  of  rope  from  one  of  the  upper  bunks) 
This'll  do  for  me  an'  Scotty  to  tie  him. 

SCOTTY.     He's  turrnin'  this  way  —  he's  comin' ! 
[He  moves  away  from  door. 

DAVIS.     Stand  by  to  lend  a  hand,  Cocky. 

COCKY.     Righto. 

[As  Smitty  enters  the  forecastle  he  is  seized  roughly  from  both 
sides  and  his  arms  pinned  behind  him.  At  first  he  struggles 
fiercely,  but  seeing  the  uselessness  of  this,  he  finally  stands 
calmly  and  allows  Davis  and  Scotty  to  tie  up  his  arms. 

SMITTY  (when  they  have  finished  —  with  cold  contempt).  If 
this  is  your  idea  of  a  joke  I'll  have  to  confess  it's  a  bit  too 
thick  for  me  to  enjoy. 

COCKY  (angrily).     Shut  yer  marf,  'ear  ! 

DRISCOLL   (roughly).     Ye'll  find  ut's  no  joke,   me    bucko, 
b'fore  we're  done  wid  you.     (To  Scotty)     Kape  your  eye 
peeled,  Scotty,  and  sing  out  if  any  one's  comin'. 
[Scotty  resumes  his  post  at  the  door. 

SMITTY  (with  the  same  icy  contempt) .  If  you'd  be  good  enough 
to  explain  — 

DRISCOLL  (furiously).  Explain,  is  ut?  'Tis  you'll  do  the 
explainin'  —  an'  damn  quick,  or  we'll  know  the  reason 
why.  (To  Yank  and  Davis)  Bring  him  here,  now.  (They 
push  Smitty  over  to  the  bucket)  Look  here,  ye  murrdherin* 
swab.  D'you  see  ut  ? 

[Smitty  looks  down  with  an  expression  of  amazement  which 
rapidly  changes  to  one  of  anguish. 


IN  THE   ZONE  193 


DAVIS  (with  a  sneer).  Look  at  him!  S'prised,  ain't  you? 
If  you  wants  to  try  your  dirty  spyin'  tricks  on  us  you've 
gotter  git  up  earlier  in  the  mornin'. 

COCKY.     Thorght  yer  weren't  'arf  a  fox,  didn't  yer  ? 

SMITTY  (trying  to  restrain  his  growing  rage) .  What  —  what  do 
you  mean?  That's  only  —  How  dare— What  are  you 
doing  with  my  private  belongings? 

COCKY  (sarcastically).     Ho  yus  !     Private  b'longings  ! 

DRISCOLL  (shouting).  What  is  ut,  ye  swine?  Will  you  tell 
us  to  our  faces  ?  What's  in  ut  ? 

SMITTY  (biting  his  lips  —  holding  himself  in  check  with  a  great 
effort) .  Nothing  but  —  That's  my  business.  You'll  please 
attend  to  your  own. 

DRISCOLL.  Oho,  ut  is,  is  ut  ?  (Shaking  his  fist  in  Smitty' s 
face)  Talk  aisy  now  if  ye  know  what's  best  for  you. 
Your  business,  indade !  Then  we'll  be  makin'  ut  our's, 
I'm  thinkin'.  (To  Yank  and  Davis)  Take  his  keys 
away  from  him  an'  we'll  see  if  there's  one'll  open  ut, 
maybe.  (They  start  in  searching  Smitty,  who  tries  to  resist 
and  kicks  out  at  the  bucket.  Driscoll  leaps  forward  and 
helps  them  push  him  away)  Try  to  kick  ut  over,  wud  ye  ? 
Did  ye  see  him  then  ?  Tryin'  to  murrdher  us  all,  the  scut ! 
Take  that  pail  out  av  his  way,  Cocky. 
[Smitty  struggles  with  all  of  his  strength  and  keeps  them  busy 
for  a  few  seconds.  As  Cocky  grabs  the  pail  Smitty  makes 
a  final  effort  and,  lunging  forward,  kicks  again  at  the  bucket, 
but  only  succeeds  in  hitting  Cocky  on  the  shin.  Cocky  im 
mediately  sets  down  the  pail  with  a  bang  and,  clutching  his 
knee  in  both  hands,  starts  hopping  around  the  forecastle, 
groaning  and  swearing. 

COCKY.  Ooow  !  Gawd  strike  me  pink  !  Kicked  me,  'e  did  ! 
Bloody,  bleedin',  rotten  Dutch  'og  !  (Approaching  Smitty, 
who  has  given  up  the  fight  and  is  pushed  back  against  the 
wall  near  the  doorway  with  Yank  and  Davis  holding  him  on 
either  side  —  wrathfully,  at  the  top  of  his  lungs)  Kick  me, 
will  yer  ?  I'll  show  yer  what  for,  yer  bleedin'  sneak ! 
\He  draws  back  his  fist.  Driscoll  pushes  him  to  one  side. 


194  IN  THE   ZONE 


DRISCOLL.     Shut  your  mouth !     D'you  want  to  wake   the 

whole  ship  ? 

[Cocky  grumbles  and  retires  to  a  bench,  nursing  his  sore 

shin. 
YANK  (taking  a  small  bunch  of  keys  from  Smitty's  pocket). 

Here  yuh  are,  Drisc. 
DRISCOLL  (taking  them).     We'll  soon  be  knowin'. 

[He  takes  the  pail  and  sits  down,  placing  it  on  the  floor  between 

his  feet.     Smitty  again  tries  to  break  loose,  but  he  is  too  tired 

and  is  easily  held  back  against  the  wall. 
SMITTY  (breathing  heavily  and  very  pale).     Cowards  ! 
YANK  (with  a  growl).     Nix  on  the  rough  talk,  see!     That 

don't  git  yuh  nothin.' 
DRISCOLL  (looking  at  the  lock  on  the  box  in  the  water  and  then 

scrutinizing  the  keys  in  his  hand) .     This'll  be  ut,  I'm  thinkin'. 

[He  selects  one  and  gingerly  reaches  his  hand  in  the  water. 
SMITTY  (his  face  grown  livid  —  chokingly).     Don't  you  open 

that  box,  Driscoll.     If  you  do,  so  help  me  God,  I'll  kill 

you  if  I  have  to  hang  for  it. 
DRISCOLL  (pausing  —  his  hand  in  the  water) .     Whin  I  open  this 

box  I'll  not  be  the  wan  to  be  kilt,  me  sonny  bye !      I'm 

no  dirty  spy. 
SMITTY  (his  voice  trembling  with  rage.     His  eyes  are  fixed  on 

Driscoll's  hand).     Spy?     What  are  you  talking  about? 

I  only  put  that  box  there  so  I  could  get  it  quick  in  case 

we  were  torpedoed.     Are  you  all  mad?     Do  you  think 

I'm  —  (chokingly)     You  stupid  curs !     You  cowardly  dolts ! 

[Davis  claps  his  hand  over  Smitty's  mouth. 
DAVIS.     That'll  be  enough  from  you  ! 

[Driscoll  takes  the  dripping  box  from  the  water  and  starts  to 

fit  in  the  key.     Smitty  springs  forward  furiously,  almost  escap 
ing  from  their  grasp,  and  drags  them  after  him  half-way 

across  the  forecastle. 
DRISCOLL.     Hold  him,  ye  divils ! 

[He  puts  the  box  back  in  the  water  and  jumps  to  their  aid. 

Cocky  hovers  on  the  outskirts  of  the  battle,  mindful  of  the 

kick  he  received. 


IN   THE   ZONE  195 


SMITTY  (raging) .  Cowards !  Damn  you !  Rotten  curs ! 
(He  is  thrown  to  the  floor  and  held  there)  Cowards  !  Cow 
ards  ! 

DRISCOLL.     I'll  shut  your  dirty  mouth  for  you. 

[He  goes  to  his  bunk  and  pulls  out  a  bi,g  wad  of  waste  and 
comes  back  to  Smitty. 

SMITTY.     Cowards  !  Cowards  ! 

DRISCOLL  (with  no  gentle  hand  slaps  the  waste  over  Smitty' s 
mouth).  That'll  teach  you  to  be  misnamin'  a  man,  ye 
sneak.  Have  ye  a  handkerchief,  Yank?  (Yank  hands 
him  one  and  he  ties  it  tightly  around  Smitty's  head  over  the 
waste)  That'll  fix  your  gab.  Stand  him  up,  now,  and 
tie  his  feet,  too,  so  he'll  not  be  movin'.  (They  do  so  and 
leave  him  with  his  back  against  the  wall  near  Scotty.  Then 
they  all  sit  down  beside  Driscoll,  who  again  lifts  the  box  out  of 
the  water  and  sets  it  carefully  on  his  knees.  He  picks  out 
the  key,  then  hesitates,  looking  from  one  to  the  other  uncer 
tainly)  We'd  best  be  takin'  this  to  the  skipper,  d'you 
think,  maybe? 

YANK  (irritably).  To  hell  with  the  old  man.  This  is  our 
game  and  we  c'n  play  it  without  no  help. 

COCKY.     No  bleedin'  horficers,  I  says  ! 

DAVIS.  They'd  only  be  takin'  all  the  credit  and  makin' 
heroes  of  they  selves. 

DRISCOLL  (boldly).  Here  goes  thin.  (He  slowly  turns  the 
key  in  the  lock.  The  others  instinctively  back  away.  He 
carefully  pushes  the  cover  back  on  its  hinges  and  looks  at 
what  he  sees  inside  with  an  expression  of  puzzled  astonish 
ment.  The  others  crowd  up  close.  Even  Scotty  leaves  his 
post  to  take  a  look)  What  is  ut,  Davis  ? 

DAVIS  (mystified).  Looks  funny,  don't  it  ?  Somethin'  square 
tied  up  in  a  rubber  bag.  Maybe  it's  dynamite  —  or  some- 
thin'  —  you  can't  never  tell. 

YANK.  Aw,  it  ain't  got  no  works,  so  it  ain't  no  bomb,  I'll 
bet. 

DAVIS  (dubiously).     They  makes  them- all  kinds,  they  do. 

YANK.     Open  it  up,  Drisc. 


196  IN  THE   ZONE 


DAVIS.     Careful  now ! 

[Driscoll  takes  a  black  rubber  bag  resembling  a  large  tobacco 
pouch  from  the  box  and  unties  the  string  which  is  wound 
tightly  around  the  top.  He  opens  it  and  takes  out  a  small 
packet  of  letters  also  tied  up  with  string.  He  turns  these  over 
in  his  hands  and  looks  at  the  others  questioningly. 

YANK  (with  a  broad  grin).     On'y  letters !     (Slapping Davis 
on  the  back)     Yuh're  a  hell  of  a  Sherlock  Holmes,  ain't 
yuh  ?     Letters  from  his  best  girl  too,  I'll  bet.     Let's  turn 
the  Duke  loose,  what  d'yuh  say  ? 
[He  starts  to  get  up. 

DAVIS  (fixing  him  with  a  withering  look) .  Don't  be  so  damned 
smart,  Yank.  Letters,  you  says,  's  if  there  never  was  no 
harm  in  'em.  How  d'you  s'pose  spies  gets  their  orders  and 
sends  back  what  they  finds  out  if  it  ain't  by  letters  and 
such  things?  There's  many  a  letter  is  worser'n  any 
bomb. 

COCKY.  Righto !  They  ain't  as  innercent  as  they  looks, 
I'll  take  me  oath,  when  you  read  'em.  (Pointing  at  Smitty) 
Not  'is  Lordship's  letters ;  not  be  no  means  ! 

YANK  (sitting  down  again).     Well,  read  'em  and  find  out. 
[Driscoll  commences  untying  the  packet.      There  is  a  muffled 
groan  of  rage  and  protest  from  Smitty. 

DAVIS  (triumphantly) .  There !  Listen  to  him !  Look  at 
him  tryin'  to  git  loose !  Ain't  that  proof  enough  ?  He 
knows  well  we're  findin'  him  out.  Listen  to  me !  Love 
letters,  you  says,  Yank,  's  if  they  couldn't  harm  nothin'. 
Listen !  I  was  readin'  in  some  magazine  in  New  York 
on'y  two  weeks  back  how  some  German  spy  in  Paris  was 
writin'  love  letters  to  some  woman  spy  in  Switzerland  who 
sent  'em  on  to  Berlin,  Germany.  To  read  'em  you  wouldn't 
s'pect  nothin'  —  just  mush  and  all.  (Impressively)  But 
they  had  a  way  o'  doin'  it  —  a  damn  sneakin'  way.  They 
had  a  piece  o'  plain  paper  with  pieces  cut  out  of  it  an  when 
they  puts  it  on  top  o'  the  letter  they  sees  on'y  the  words 
what  tells  them  what  they  wants  to  know.  An'  the  French- 
ies  gets  beat  in  a  fight  all  on  account  o'  that  letter. 


IN   THE   ZONE  197 


COCKY  (awed).  Gawd  blimey  !  They  ain't  'arf  smart  bleed 
ers  ! 

DAVIS  (seeing  his  audience  is  again  all  with  him}.  An'  even 
if  these  letters  of  his  do  sound  all  right  they  may  have 
what  they  calls  a  code.  You  can't  never  tell.  (To  Dris- 
coll  who  has  finished  untying  the  packet)  Read  one  of 
'em,  Drisc.  My  eyes  is  weak. 

DRISCOLL  (takes  the  first  one  out  of  its  envelope  and  bends  down 
to  the  lantern  with  it.     He  turns  up  the  wick  to  give  him  a  bet 
ter  light).     I'm  no  hand  to  be  readin',  but  I'll  try  ut. 
[Again  there  is  a  muffled  groan  from  Smitty  as  he  strains  at 
his  bonds. 

DAVIS  (gloatingly).  Listen  to  him!  He  knows.  Go  ahead, 
Drisc ! 

DRISCOLL  (his  brow  furrowed  with  concentration) .  Ut  begins  : 
"Dearest  Man — (His  eyes  travel  down  the  page)  An' 
thin  there's  a  lot  av  blarney  tellin'  him  how  much  she 
misses  him  now  she's  gone  away  to  singin'  school  —  an' 
how  she  hopes  he'll  settle  down  to  rale  worrk  an'  not  be 
skylarkin'  around  now  that  she's  away,  loike  he  used  to 
before  she  met  up  wid  him  —  and  ut  ends :  "I  love  you 
betther  than  anythin'  in  the  worrld.  You  know  that, 
don't  you,  dear?  But  b'fore  I  can  agree  to  live  out  my 
life  wid  you,  you  must  prove  to  me  that  the  black  shadow 
—  I  won't  menshun  its  hateful  name,  but  you  know 
what  I  mean  —  which  might  wreck  both  our  lives,  does 
not  exist  for  you.  You  can  do  that,  can't  you,  dear? 
Don't  you  see  you  must,  for  my  sake  ?  "  (He  pauses  for 
a  moment  —  then  adds  gruffly)  Ut's  signed  :  Edith. 
[At  the  sound  of  the  name  Smitty,  who  has  stood  tensely  with 
his  eyes  shut  as  if  he  were  undergoing  torture  during  the  read 
ing,  makes  a  muffled  sound  like  a  sob  and  half  turns  his  face 
to  the  wall. 

YANK  (sympathetically) .  Hell !  What's  the  use  of  readin' 
that  stuff  even  if  — 

DAVIS  (interrupting  him  sharply) .  Wait !  Where's  that 
letter  from,  Drisc? 


198  IN   THE   ZONE 


DRISCOLL.     There's  no  address  on  the  top  av  ut. 

DAVIS  (meaningly).  What'd  I  tell  you?  Look  at  the  post 
mark,  Drisc,  —  on  the  envelope. 

DRISCOLL.  The  name  that's  written  is  Sidney  Davidson, 
wan  hunderd  an*  — 

DAVIS.  Never  mind  that.  O'  corse  it's  a  false  name.  Look 
at  the  postmark. 

DRISCOLL.  There's  a  furrin'  stamp  on  ut  by  the  looks  av  ut. 
The  mark's  blurred  so  it's  hard  to  read.  (He  spells  it  out 
laboriously)  B-e-r-,  the  nixt  is  an  1, 1  think,  —  i  —  an'  an  n. 

DAVIS  (excitedly).  Berlin!  What  did  I  tell  you?  I  knew 
them  letters  was  from  Germany. 

COCKY  (shaking  his  fist  in  Smitty' s  direction).  Rotten  'ound  ! 
[The  others  look  at  Smitty  as  if  this  last  fact  had  utterly  con 
demned  him  in  their  eyes. 

DAVIS.  Give  me  the  letter,  Drisc.  Maybe  I  kin  make  some- 
thin'  out  of  it.  (Driscoll  hands  the  letter  to  him)  You  go 
through  the  others,  Drisc,  and  sing  out  if  you  sees  anythin' 
queer. 

[He  bends  over  the  first  letter  as  if  he  were  determined  to  figure 
out  its  secret  meaning.  Yank,  Cocky,  and  Scotty  look  over  his 
shoulder  with  eager  curiosity.  Driscoll  takes  out  some  of  the 
other  letters,  running  his  eyes  quickly  down  the  pages.  He 
looks  curiously  over  at  Smitty  from  time  to  time,  and  sighs 
frequently  with  a  puzzled  frown. 

DAVIS  (disappointedly).  I  gottergive  it  up.  It's  too  deep 
for  me,  but  we'll  turn  'em  over  to  the  perlice  when  we 
docks  at  Liverpool,  to  look  through.  This  one  I  got  was 
written  a  year  before  the  war  started,  anyway.  Find 
anythin'  in  yours,  Drisc  ? 

DRISCOLL.  They're  all  the  same  as  the  first  —  lovin'  blarney, 
an'  how  her  singin'  is  doin',  an*  the  grreat  things  the  Dutch 
teacher  says  about  her  voice,  an'  how  glad  she  is  that  her 
Sidney  bye  is  worrkin'  harrd  an'  makin'  a  man  av  himself 
for  her  sake. 
[Smitty  turns  his  face  completely  to  the  wall. 

DAVIS  (disgustedly).     If  we  on'y  had  the  code! 


IN   THE   ZONE  199 


DRISCOLL  (taking  up  the  bottom  letter) .  Hullo !  Here's  wan 
addressed  to  this  ship  —  S.S.  Glencairn,  ut  says  —  whin 
we  was  in  Cape  Town  sivin  months  ago.  (Looking  at  the 
postmark)  Ut's  from  London. 

DAVIS  (eagerly) .     Read  it ! 

[There  is  another  choking  groan  from  Smitty. 

DRISCOLL  (reads  slowly  —  his  voice  becomes  lower  and  lower  as 
he  goes  on) .  Ut  begins  wid  simply  the  name  Sidney  David 
son  —  no  dearest  or  swaetheart  to  this  wan.  "Ut  is  only 
from  your  chance  meetin'  wid  Harry  —  whin  you  were 
drunk  —  that  I  happen  to  know  where  to  reach  you.  So 
you  have  run  away  to  sea  loike  the  coward  you  are,  be 
cause  you  knew  I  had  found  out  the  truth  —  the  truth  you 
have  covered  over  wid  your  mean  little  lies  all  the  time  I 
was  away  in  Berlin  and  blindly  trusted  you.  Very  well, 
you  have  chosen.  You  have  shown  that  your  drunkenness 
means  more  to  you  than  any  love  or  faith  av  mine.  I  am 
sorry  —  for  I  loved  you,  Sidney  Davidson  —  but  this  is 
the  end.  I  lave  you  —  the  mem'ries ;  an'  if  ut  is  any 
satisfaction  to  you  I  lave  you  the  real-i-zation  that  you 
have  wrecked  my  loife  as  you  have  wrecked  your  own.  My 
one  remainin'  hope  is  that  nivir  in  God's  worrld  will  I 
ivir  see  your  face  again.  Good-by,  Edith." 
[As  he  finishes  there  is  a  deep  silence,  broken  only  by  Smitty' s 
muffled  sobbing.  The  men  cannot  look  at  each  other.  Driscoll 
holds  the  rubber  bag  limply  in  his  hand  and  some  small 
white  object  falls  out  of  it  and  drops  noiselessly  on  the  floor . 
Mechanically  Driscoll  leans  over  and  picks  it  up,  and  looks  at 
it  wonderingly. 

DAVIS  (in  a  dull  voice).     What's  that  ? 

DRISCOLL  (slowly).  A  bit  av  a  dried-up  flower,  — a  rose, 
maybe. 

[He  drops  it  into  the  bag  and  gathers  up  the  letters  and  puts 
them  back.  He  replaces  the  bag  in  the  box,  and  locks  it  and 
puts  it  back  in  under  Smitty' s  mattress.  The  others  follow 
him  with  their  eyes.  He  steps  softly  over  to  Smitty  and  cuts 
the  ropes  about  his  arms  and  ankles  with  his  sheath  knife, 


200  IN   THE   ZONE 


and  unties  the  handkerchief  over  the  gag.  Smitty  does  not 
turn  around,  but  covers  his  face  with  his  hands  and  leans  his 
head  against  the  wall.  His  shoulders  continue  to  heave 
spasmodically,  but  he  makes  no  further  sound. 
DRISCOLL  (stalks  back  to  the  others  —  there  is  a  moment  of  silence 
in  which  each  man  is  in  agony  with  the  hopelessness  of  finding 
a  word  he  can  say  —  then  Driscoll  explodes) .  God  stiffen  us, 
are  we  never  goin*  to  turn  in  fur  a  wink  av  sleep  ? 
[They  all  start  as  if  awakening  from  a  bad  dream  and  grate 
fully  crawl  into  their  bunks,  shoes  and  all,  turning  their  faces 
to  the  wall,  and  pulling  their  blankets  up  over  their  shoulders. 
Scotty  tiptoes  past  Smitty  out  into  the  darkness.  Driscoll 
turns  down  the  lights  and  crawls  into  his  bunk  as 

THE    CURTAIN    FALLS 


THE  BRINK  OF  SILENCE 

ESTHER   E.   GALBRAITH 

Miss  ESTHER  E.  GALBRAITH  was  born  July  20,  1893,  in 
Washington,  D.  C.  She  graduated  from  George  Washington 
University,  where  she  received  the  degree  of  A.B.  She  has 
written  for  the  newspapers,  and  editorially  for  various  mag 
azines.  While  in  college  she  had  some  of  her  plays  produced. 

"The  Brink  of  Silence"  was  written  as  an  assignment  to  a 
playwriting  group  under  the  direction  of  The  Drama  League 
Players  of  Washington,  each  member  of  which  was  to  de 
velop  the  Enoch  Arden  situation  in  some  new  and  original 
form.  "The  Brink  of  Silence"  was  chosen  as  the  best  of 
the  group.  It  was  produced  later  by  The  Drama  League 
Players  with  great  success. 


THE  BRINK  OF   SILENCE 


BY  ESTHER  E.   GALBRAITH 


"The  Brink  of  Silence"  was  originally  produced  by  The 
Drama  League  Players  of  Washington,  D.C.,  at  the  Wilson 
Normal  School,  April  17,  1917. 

Original  Cast 

COLE       G.  A.  Lyon 

MACREADY        Frederic  B.  WTright 

DARTON       Ralph  Hayes 

JOHNSON Edwin  Ludwig 

Scene  designed  by  Alice  E.  Edwards 


All  rights  reserved. 

Application  for  the  right  of  performing  "The  Brink  of  Silence"  must  be  made 
to  Miss  Esther  Galbraith,  3425  Fourteenth  St.,  N.  E.,  Washington,  D.  C. 


THE  BRINK  OF  SILENCE 

SCENE.  The  scene  is  inside  a  log  house  on  a  rocky  island  fat 
down  in  the  Antarctic.  There  is  an  outer  door  at  the  back;  no 
windows;  down  right  an  inner  door  to  another  room.  There  is 
a  bunk  against  the  left  wall;  an  oil  stove  burning,  down  left;  a 
rough  table  at  the  center.  There  is  one  chair  and  a  box  which 
serves  as  one.  The  room  is  entirely  bare  of  ornament;  there  are 
Si  few  battered  books  and  magazines  piled  on  a  packing  box  which 
has  been  improvised  for  a  cupboard  in  the  corner,  up  right. 
Cole  is  seated  at  the  table  playing  solitaire  in  the  light  of  an  oil 
lamp.  Macready  is  pacing  slowly  at  the  back  of  the  room. 
Both  men  wear  heavy  sweaters  and  boots.  Fur  coats  and  gloves 
are  hung  on  the  wall.  Neither  speaks  for  a  minute  after  the 
curtain  rises. 

MACREADY.     For  God's  sake,  Cole  —  say  something !     Any 
thing  to  break  this  damned  quiet.  —  God,  I'd  like  to  go 

home  this  winter,  wouldn't  you  ! 
COLE.     England  isn't  home.  —  No,  I'm  here  for  a  few  more 

seasons  in  this  nest  of  blizzards  and  I'll  see  it  through. 
MAC.     It  isn't  too  late  for  the  boat  to  make  another  trip 

with  supplies. 
COLE.     We've  enough  to  last  if  she  doesn't  come  before  the 

force  gets  here  next  summer. 
MAC.     If  she  does  come,  I'm  going  back  with  her  and  so  are 

you. 

COLE.     Nope. 
MAC.     Aw  —  nobody  cares  whether  we   spend   the  winter 

here  or  not.  Nothing  would  be  said  one  way  or  the  other. 
COLE.  Well,  you  go  ahead.  There'll  be  that  much  more 

tobacco  for  me. 


206  THE   BRINK  OF  SILENCE 

MAC.  Go  and  leave  you  alone?  Suppose  you  got  sick 
here  by  yourself. 

COLE.     I  haven't  been  sick  in  the  past  eight  years. 

MAC.  But  we  need  to  get  out.  We  need  to  see  civilization 
again.  We'll  be  a  pair  of  savages  soon. 

COLE.  We  don't  belong  to  a  race  that  goes  down-hill  be 
cause  the  climate's  hot  or  cold,  nor  from  living  six  hundred 
miles  from  the  nearest  human.  You  know  that  as  well  as 
I  do. 

MAC.     You  couldn't  stand  the  silence,  Cole. 

COLE.     I  don't  mind  it ;  I've  stood  it  a  long  time. 

MAC.  I've  had  two  years  of  it,  and  it's  all  I  want.  I  want 
to  see  cities  —  and  men  and  women  and  children.  I've 
got  two  little  nephews  in  Manchester.  One's  nine  and  the 
other's  twelve.  I'd  give  the  world  to  see  them  to-night. 
You're  a  queer  one  —  not  wanting  to  go  back. 

COLE  (after  a  pause).     Mac,  —  I  can't  go  back. 

MAC  (staring  at  him).     I  don't  believe  it. 

COLE.     Did  you  ever  hear  of  the  Darton  expedition  ? 

MAC.  Think  I  did  —  Sir  Gilbert  Darton  —  about  ten 
years  ago.  Seems  to  me  —  They  never  came  back,  did 
they? 

COLE.     The  expedition  never  came  back.     I  am  Darton ! 

MAC.     Sir  Gilbert  Darton? 

COLE.  Yes. —  I  lost  my  ship  —  that  was  the  first  of  a 
series  of  disasters.  Two  injuries  to  men  tied  us  up.  Our 
small  boats  were  useless  because  of  ice  conditions  and  our 
food  was  nearly  gone  before  five  of  us  were  able  to  get  off 
to  try  to  reach  help.  We  made  progress  for  a  few  days 
and  then  a  blizzard  that  would  make  ten  of  yesterday's 
storm  struck  us.  We'd  had  little  to  eat  and  were  too  weak 
to  handle  the  boat.  It  was  simply  dashed  ashore  on  the 
rocky  side  of  this  island.  —  I  got  through  alive ;  no  one 
else  did.  —  Lauter  was  here  then  and  he  found  me.  He 
didn't  know  who  I  was.  It  was  six  months  before  a  whaler 
touched.  I  learned  that  the  relief  expedition  had  reached 
the  men  we  were  trying  to  save  —  too  late.  I  went  out 


THE   BRINK   OF  SILENCE  207 

with  the  whaler  to  Buenos  Aires,  to  a  hospital.  Months 
later  when  I  recovered,  I  learned  that  the  Darton  ex 
pedition  had  been  given  up  as  a  total  tragedy.  —  And  I 
learned  that  my  own  place  had  closed  up ;  that  I  was  a 
living  dead  man. 

MAC.     What  do  you  mean  ? 

COLE.  I  read  in  a  London  paper  that  Lady  Darton  was  to 
be  married  —  married  to  a  man  named  Carruthers. 

MAC.     And  you  didn't  —  ? 

COLE.  No  one  ever  knew.  I  took  the  name  of  Ernest  Cole 
and  came  back  here  to  stay. 

MAC.     So  —  that's  it. 

COLE.  It  seemed  only  justice.  I  had  asked  a  beautiful, 
wilful  woman  to  give  up  the  best  years  of  her  life  to  wait 
ing  and  loneliness,  with  an  ugly  fear  always  hovering  over 
her  heart.  That's  the  portion  of  an  explorer's  wife.  And 
I  had  no  right  to  come  back  —  a  broken  failure  —  and 
stand  between  her  and  happiness.  —  I  made  my  decision, 
but  I  had  to  fight  the  impulse  to  claim  my  own. 

MAC.     Were  there  —  any  children  ? 

COLE.  A  son.  He  was  sixteen  when  I  saw  him  last.  I  had 
planned  to  take  him  out  with  me  on  my  next  trip.  I'd 
dreamed  of  months  of  comradeship  that  would  make  up 
for  the  years  we'd  spent  apart.  I  thought  perhaps  he'd 
become  an  explorer  and  go  on  with  my  work.  But  his 
mother's  happiness  was  at  stake.  I  couldn't  interfere. 
—  God,  how  I  wanted  to  see  the  boy  ! 

MAC,     And  haven't  you  seen  him  since? 

COLE.  No.  I  couldn't  go  back.  I  might  have  been  recog 
nized.  The  fear  of  that  drove  me  back  —  back  here. 
Lauter  was  gone  and  I  took  his  place  at  this  station. 

MAC.  It's  all  wrong,  Cole.  You're  too  big  a  man  to  throw 
yourself  away  like  this.  You're  wrong. 

COLE.  There  was  nothing  else  to  do.  I've  left  them 
a  memory  they  can't  be  ashamed  of.  —  I  seldom  think  of 
England  now.  The  distance,  the  stillness  help  me  to 
forget.  It's  only  the  thought  of  my  work  —  the  work  that 


208  THE   BRINK  OF  SILENCE 

was  my  life  —  that  other  men  are  carrying  on.  It  gnaws 
and  gnaws  —  God  !  It's  worse  than  hunger  ! 

MAC.  Time  makes  a  lot  of  difference.  Things  might  be 
changed  in  England.  You  might  find  a  way  to  go  back. 
If  not  —  it's  a  big  world.  You  could  go  to  America  and 
perhaps  take  up  your  work. 

COLE.  I  could  never  take  up  my  work.  Sooner  or  later  I 
would  come  in  contact  with  men  who  would  recognize 
me. 

MAC.     I  wish  you'd  get  out  of  this  with  me. 

COLE.  Don't  worry  about  me,  Mac.  What's  the  use!  The 
only  place  I  have  now  is  here  —  in^  the  frozen  wilder 
ness,  with  my  dream  of  conquering  it  that  I  can  never 
make  real.  —  And  some  day  I'll  learn  that  Remensen  or 
Courcelle  has  made  the  trip. 

MAC.     You  ought  to  get  out  of  this. 

COLE  (breaking  out) .  I  ought  to  have  drowned  out  there  with 
my  men  ten  years  ago. 

MAC.  There,  you  see.  It's  this  damn  silence  makes  you 
say  things  like  that. 

COLE.     But  the  silence  would  always  call  me  back. 

[Macready  can  think  of  no  more  arguments.  For  a  moment 
neither  speaks.  Mac  gets  a  book,  brings  it  down  near  the 
lamp  and  begins  to  read. 

MAC.  I  think  they'll  send  the  whaler  down.  It  isn't  often 
she  could  make  the  trip  this  late.  Been  a  queer  season, 
hasn't  it  ? 

COLE.  There  hasn't  been  a  season  like  it  for  years.  I  never 
saw  one  like  it.  We  ought  to  have  been  frozen  in  tight  two 
weeks  ago. 

MAC.  It's  pretty  solid  just  south,  I  think.  Yesterday's 
storm  looked  like  winter,  sure  enough. 

COLE.  With  a  season  like  this  I  could  have  made  it.  The 
best  summer  I've  ever  seen.  It's  a  big  dream,  Mac,  cross 
ing  the  end  of  the  earth  through  that  stark  desolation  — 
and  this  was  the  year  the  right  man  could  have  done  it. 

DARTON'S  VOICE  (some  distance  outside).     Hallo  !  Hallo,  there. 


THE   BRINK  OF  SILENCE  209 

COLE.     What's  that !    ! 
[Both  start  to  the  door. 

MAC  (opening  door).     Two  men.  One's  hurt  or  frozen. 

[Darton  and  Johnson  appear  at  the  door.  Both  are  under 
thirty.  Darton  s  dress  and  equipment  are  in  good  condition 
and,  in  spite  of  the  awkwardness  of  fur  garments,  he  is  fine 
looking.  Johnson  has  his  ar*n.  over  Darton  s  shoulder  and  the 
latter  is  practically  carrying  him.  There  is  a  bleeding  cut 
in  his  forehead  and  he  is  rather  ragged. 

COLE.     What's  wrong. 

DARTON  (coming  in).  Nothing  much,  I  guess.  Bad  landing 
over  there.  He  was  knocked  down  and  got  a  nasty  cut. 
[Mac  -tfcpy  to  Johnsons  side  ant?  they  gel  /,•/>>  rm  the  bunk. 

COLE"  (hurrying  into  the  other  room}.     Wre  can  fix  him  up. 
[Darton  is  taking  off  Johnson's  hood.     There  is  a  short  cry 
of  pain. 

DARTON.     Sorry,  old  man.     Is  that  better  ? 

MAC.     Better  leave  your  partner  to  Cole.    He's  quite  a  doctor. 

COLE  (reenters,  carrying  a  tin  box  and  bandage).     I'll  put  on 
the  bandage.     Have  something  warm. 
[Darton  takes  off  his  gloves  and  Macready  hands  him  a  cup 
of  steaming  broth  from  the  pot  on  the  stove. 

DARTON  (takes  it,  smiles  and  impulsively  extends  his  hand). 
Thanks.  This  is  great. 

MAC  (shaking  hands) .     How'd  you  get  here  ? 

DARTON.  I  came  down  in  the  Pathfinder  to  bring  out  a  party 
we  left  last  year.  Johnson  was  one  of  them.  We  located 
them  but  couldn't  take  the  ship  in,  so  ten  of  us  went  in 
boats.  Got  them  all  out,  but  yesterday's  storm  drove  us 
away  from  the  Pathfinder,  and  we  landed  on  the  other  side 
of  the  island.  Rest  of  our  people  are  making  camp  until 
the  ship  picks  us  up. 

COLE.     This  is  Parker's  Island. 

DARTON.  Yes.  We  located  ourselves  after  landing.  Didn't 
know  there  was  a  settlement.  Saw  your  light  and  brought 
Johnson  across.  He  was  pretty  badly  done  up  before  his 
accident.  His  party's  had  a  hell  of  a  time  since  last  year. 


210  THE  BRINK  OF  SILENCE 

_  _  _,......  .  ,r  ,_  N „    ,    .-__, !       -,-,  _^ 

We  didn't  reach  them  much  too  soon.  —  You  here  all 
alone  ? 

MAC.  The  company  sends  a  force  down  during  the  season 
to  get  penguin  and  whale  oil;  the  rest  of  the  time  we're 
alone.  No  other  ships  touch  here. 

DARTON.     Been  at  it  long? 

MAC.     Cole's  been  at  it  eight  years.     I've  only  been  here  two. 

DARTON.     Isn't  it  pretty  close  to  the  edge  ? 

MAC.     It  is  the  edge  ! 

DARTON  (half  to  himself) .     The  brink  of  silence. 

COLE  (coming  toward  him) .  That's  my  name  for  it  —  t|ie 
great  white  silence. 

DARTON.  A  man  can't  forget  the  Antarctic.  The  crude 
flaming  color  of  the  sunrise  —  the  blue  of  the  moon  on  the 
great  white  reaches  in  the  long  night,  and  the  weird  bright 
curtains  of  the  Aurora  —  once  he's  seen  them  he  never 
forgets. 

COLE.  But  it's  the  silence  that  brings  him  back.  There's 
none  of  the  muddled,  squirming  turmoil  of  life  out  here. 
Just  the  infinite  patience  of  nature,  waiting  in  endless  sus 
pense  —  silent.  You  seem  always  very  close  to  the  answer. 

MAC.     The  answer?     What  are  you  talking  about,  Cole? 

COLE  (to  Darton).     Macready's  a  Presbyterian. 

MAC.     What's  that  got  to  do  with  it  ? 

COLE.     Nothing  whatever. 

DARTON  (smiling,  turns  to  the  stove  and  throws  of  his  hood). 
(To  Cole) 

You've  been  further  out? 
[As  Cole  hesitates,  Johnson  stirs  and  tries  to  sit  up. 

JOHNSON.     Darton,  are  you  there  ?     Darton  ! 

[Cole  starts  violently.  His  expression  is  mingled  amaze 
ment  and  fear,  and  he  stands  as  if  at  bay,  staring  at  them. 
Then  as  Darton  steps  to  the  bunk,  he  understands. 

DARTON.     Lie  down,  Johnson.     It's  all  right. 

JOHNSON.     I  thought  for  a  minute  I  was  back  in  the  hut  — 
that  you  hadn't  come  for  us. 
[His  voice  is  thick  and  he  stammers  a  little. 


THE   BRINK  OF  SILENCE  211 

DARTON.     Of  course,  it's  me.     Are  you  cold? 

JOHNSON.     Nearly  frozen.     Can't  you  give  me  something  to 

eat  now? 

[Macready  fills  a  cup. 
DARTON.     Yes,  you  can  have  a  lot  to  eat  now.     Just  had  to 

be  careful  at  first,  you  know. 

[He  fiands  the  cup  to  Johnson,,  who,  instead  of  taking  it, 

clutches  his  arm. 

JOHNSON.     And  you  have  come,  Darton  ? 
DARTON.     Of  course  I  have,  you  big  fool.     Drink  some  of 

this  now. 

[Cole  remains  at  the  window,  some  distance  from  the  light. 

When  he  speaks,  it  is  in  a  strained  i\>lce  which  he  tries  to 

make  natural. 

COLE.     Were  you  trying  to  make  the  trip  across  ? 
DARTON.     Yes.     It's  the  fourth  attempt. 
MAC.     Yours  ? 
DARTON.     No.     My  father  made  the  first.     You   probably 

heard  of  the  Darton  expedition  about  ten  years  ago  — 
MAC  (quickly}.     Yes,  I  heard  of  it. 
DARTON.     He  didn't  make  it  and  he  never  got  back.     Two 

others  have  tried  it  since  —  Remensen  and  Courcelle. 
COLE.     And  they  — 
DARTON.     They  had  to  turn  back.     We've  had  a  good  season, 

and  luck,  too,  I  guess.     Anyhow,  we  did  it. 
COLE.     Do  you  mean  —  ? 

DARTON.     We  came  out  at  Ross  Sea  last  month.     We'd  sep 
arated  from  Johnson's  party  on  this  side  and  hurried  over 

to  pick  them  up.     Thought  something  might  be  wrong, 

and  something  was.     Soon  after  we  left  they  were  caught 

in  the  nips,  drifted  for  weeks,  and  finally  their  ship  was 

crushed  by  the  grinding. 
COLE.     You  must  have  come  out  in  fine  shape  to  be  here 

already. 

DARTON.     We  did.     Every  man ! 
COLE.     And  who's  your  leader  ? 
DARTON.     I  am  — 


THE  BRINK  OF  SILENCE 


COLE  (comes  back  to  him  and  starts  to  put  his  hand  on  his 

shoulder,  then  stops)  .     That's  wonderful  ! 
BARTON.     It's  great  of  you  to  understand. 
COLE.     I  do  understand.     You  went  through  that  bleak  fury 

and  came  out  safe.     You  made  it  !     You  won  ! 
MAC.     It's  a  queer  thing. 
DARTON.     I  suppose  it  is.     The  spirit  of  the  men  who  have 

faced  it  and  fought  it  and  died  in  it  seems  to  draw  you  on. 

I  think  that's  why  I  finished  my  father's  job.     (There  is  a 

sound  of  distant  cheering)     Listen,   that   means   they've 

sighted  the  Pathfinder.     I'll  have  to  get  back.  —  I'm  afraid 

Johnson  can't  travel  yet  — 
MAC.     Can't  you  leave  him  here  for  a  while  ? 
DARTON.     Thanks.     He  needs  to  sleep.     I'll  be  busy  and 

I  won't  get  back,  but  I'll  send  some  one  across  in  half  an 

hour. 

MAC.     I'd  like  to  see  the  party.     Can't  I  come  over  with  him  ? 
COLE.     And  if  the  Pathfinder  will  take  a  passenger  north  — 
DARTON.     Yourself?     Glad  to. 
COLE.     No.     Macready   was   planning   to   go   back   if   the 

company's  ship  came  down.     I'm  staying. 
DARTON  (to  Macready).     I'll  expect  you.     (To  Cole)  Good- 

by,  Mr.  Cole. 
COLE.     Good-by,  my  boy. 

[Stands  at  the  door  looking  after  him. 
MAC.     Your  son  ! 
COLE.     Yes. 

MAC.     Are  you  going  to  let  him  go  like  that  ? 
COLE.     Yes.     After  all,  my  work  is  done  —  and  my  boy 

did  it. 
MAC.     Aw  —  it's  all  wrong.     Why  — 

[But  Cole  does  not  hear  him. 
COLE  (sits  down  at  the  table  and  slowly  takes  up  the  pack  of  cards). 

Wasn't  it  funny,  Mac.     He  called  me  —  Mr.  Cole  ! 

CURTAIN 


ALLISON'S   LAD 

BEULAH   MARIE  DIX 

Miss  BEULAH  MARIE  DIX  graduated  from  Radcliffe,  and 
there  received  her  A.M.  degree.  Immediately  after,  she 
began  to  write  novels,  juveniles,  stories,  and  a  group  of  plays 
in  collaboration  with  Evelyn  Greenleaf  Sutherland.  This 
group  was  followed  later  by  a  collection  of  her  own  plays. 
Miss  Dix  (or  Mrs.  Flebbe,  as  she  is  known  in  private  life) 
is  now  writing  picture  plays  in  California. 

Her  publications  are  many  and  various.  Juveniles: 
"Hugh  Gwyeth",  "Soldier  Rigdale",  "A  Little  Captive 
Lad",  "Merrylips",  "Friends  in  the  End",  "Betty  Bide  at 
Home",  "Blithe  McBride",  "Kay  Danforth's  Camp." 
Novels:  "The  Making  of  Christopher  Ferringham",  "The 
Beau's  Comedy"  (in  collaboration  with  C.  A.  Harper), 
"Blount  of  Breckenhow",  "The  Fair  Maid  of  Graystones", 
"The  Gate  of  Horn",  "Little  God  Ebisu",  "The  Fighting 
Blade",  "Mother's  Son",  "Maid  Melicent",  "The  Battle 
Months  of  George  Daurella."  Plays:  "Allison's  Lad", 
"Across  the  Border",  "Moloch."  In  addition,  Miss  Dix 
has  contributed  various  short  stories  to  the  magazines. 

The  plays  written  in  collaboration  with  Evelyn  Greenleaf 
Sutherland  have  had  wide  production.  In  "A  Rose  o'  Plym 
outh  Town"  Miss  Minnie  Dupree  starred  during  1902-1903, 
with  Guy  Bates  Post  as  her  leading  man  and  Douglas  Fair 
banks  as  the  "juvenile."  This  was  Mr.  Fairbanks'  intro 
duction  to  Broadway.  "The  Breed  of  the  Treshams"  was 
first  produced  in  England  in  1903  by  Mr.  Martin  Harvey.  A 


214  ALLISON'S  LAD 


"second  company"  played  it  in  the  provinces  for  a  time,  and 
it  has  been  toured  successfully  in  South  Africa  and  Australia. 
"Boy  O'Carroll",  first  used  by  Mr.  Harvey  in  1906,  was  re 
vived  by  him  this  autumn.  Miss  Dix's  "The  Road  to  Yester 
day  "  was  a  great  New  York  success.  In  addition,  Miss  Dix 
was  a  collaborator  on  "Matt  of  Merrymount",  produced  by 
Fred  Terry  and  Julia  Neilson,  1907-1908,  "The  Lilac  Room", 
Miss*  Amelia  Bingham's  starring  vehicle,  1906-1907,  and 
"Young  Fernald",  produced  in  this  country  by  Henry  Miller 
and  Margaret  Anglin,  1906. 

Of  the  plays  of  which  she  is  the  sole  author,  "Across  the 
Border"  was  produced  by  Holbrook  Blinn  at  the  Princess 
Theater  in  the  fall  of  1914,  and  "Moloch"  by  Mr.  Blinn  and 
Mr.  George  Tyler  in  1915. 

Her  best-known  one-act  play  is  "Across  the  Border",  but 
it  is  a  "freak"  form  (four  short  acts,  playing  nearly  an  hour) 
and  not  a  genuine  specimen  of  the  one-act  type.  It  was 
very  successful  at  the  Princess  Theater,  and  it  has  since 
been  reproduced  at  the  Toy  Theater  in  Boston,  in  San  Fran 
cisco,  and  elsewhere.  Her  "Legend  of  St.  Nicholas",  an 
imitation  of  the  old  Miracle  Play,  was  produced  at  the  Toy 
Theater  in  Boston  in  1913  and  has  since  been  published  in 
Poet  Lore.  Her  first  one-act  play,  "Ciceley's  Cavalier", 
was  written  while  she  was  still  an  undergraduate  and  was 
acted  in  the  college  theatre.  This  play  has  since  been  pub 
lished.  Miss  Dix's  other  early  one-act  plays  are:  "Apples 
of  Eden"  and  "At  the  Sign  of  the  Buff  Bible." 


ALLISON'S   LAD 


BY  BEULAH  MARIE  DIX 


"Allison's  Lad"  was  originally  produced  by  the  American 
Academy  of  Dramatic  Arts  at  the  Carnegie  Lyceum,  New 
York,  on  December  23,  1910. 

Original  Cast 

COL.  SIR  WILLIAM  STRICKLAND  .     .     .     Abner  W.  Cassidy 
CAPTAIN  GEORGE  BOWYER    ....    James  W.  Mott 
LIEUTENANT  ROBERT  GORING    .     .     .     Gerald  Quina 

Of  the  Cavalier  Party 

FRANCIS  HOPTON Sidney  K.  Powell 

TOM  WINWOOD Donald  Macdonald 

Gentlemen  Volunteers 

COL.  JOHN  DRUMMOND  of  the  Roundhead 

Party LeRoy  Clemens 


COPYRIGHT,  1910,  BY  HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY. 

All  rights  reserved. 

Reprinted  from  "Allison's  Lad  and  other  Martial  Interludes"  by  permission  of,  and 
special  arrangement  with,  Beulah  Marie  Dix  and  Henry  Holt  and  Company. 

Application  for  the  right  of  performing  "Allison's  Lad"  must  be  made  to  Beulah 
Marie  Dir,  care  of  Henry  Holt  and  Company. 


ALLISON'S  LAD 

SCENE.  The  village  of  Faringford,  in  the  western  midlands 
of  England. 

PERIOD.     The  dose  of  the  Second  Civil  War,  autumn  1648. 

It  is  midnight  of  a  cheerless  autumn  day,  with  a  drizzle  of 
slow  rain.  In  an  upper  chamber  of  the  village  inn  of  Faring 
ford,  lit  by  guttering  candles  and  a  low  fire  that  smolders  on  the 
hearth,  are  gathered  five  gentlemen  of  the  Cavalier  party,  made 
prisoners  that  morning  in  a  disastrous  skirmish. 

In  a  great  arm-chair  by  the  hearth,  at  stage  left,  sits  their 
leader,  Sir  William  Strickland.  He  is  a  tall,  keen  man  of 
middle  age,  of  the  finest  type  of  his  party,  a  gallant  officer  and  a 
high-souled  gentleman.  He  has  received  a  dangerous  wound 
in  the  side,  which  has  been  but  hastily  dressed,  and  he  now  leans 
heavily  in  his  chair,  with  eyes  closed,  almost  oblivious  of  what 
goes  on  about  him. 

His  captain,  and  friend  of  long  standing,  George  Bowyer,  a 
sanguine,  stalwart  gentleman  of  Strickland's  own  years,  has 
planted  himself  in  the  center  of  the  room,  where  he  is  philo 
sophically  smoking  at  a  long  pipe,  while  he  watches  the  play  at 
the  rude  table,  which  stands  at  the  stage  right. 

Round  the  table,  on  rough  stools,  Goring,  Hopton,  and  Win- 
wood  sit.  dicing  and  smoking,  with  a  jug  of  ale  between  them  for 
the  cheering  of  their  captivity.  Goring  is  a  swaggering  young 
soldier  of  fortune;  Hopton,  a  gentleman  of  the  Temple,  turned 
soldier,  with  something  of  the  city  fop  still  to  be  traced  in  his 
bearing.  He  has  been  wounded,  and  bears  about  his  forehead 
a  blood-flecked  bandage.  Winwood,  the  third  gamester,  is  a 
mere  lad  of  seventeen,  smoothfaced,  comely,  with  a  gallant  car 
riage. 


218  ALLISON'S  LAD 


//  is  to  be  noted  that  the  men  play  but  half-heartedly.     In 
deed,  the  cheerlessness  of  the  midnight  hour,  in  the  dim  chamber, 
with  the  rain  tapping  on  the  mullioned  windows,  may  well  bring 
home  to  them  the  dubiousness  of  their  captive  state  and  set  them 
to  anxious  question  of  what  the  dawn  may  have  in  store.     Goring, 
of  the  three  the  most   hardened   and  professionally  a  soldier, 
is  the  first  to  speak,  as  he  throws  the  dice. 
GORING.     Cinq  and  tray  ! 
WINWOOD.     The  main  is  yours,  Rob  Goring. 
GORING.     That's  a  brace  of  angles  you  owe  me,  Frank  Hop- 
ton. 
HOPTON.     Go  ask  them  of  the  scurvy  Roundhead  had  the 

stripping  of  my  pockets. 
BOWYER  (with  the  good-humored  contempt  of  the  professional 

for  the  amateur).     The  more  fool  you  to  bear  gold  about 

you  when  you  ride  into  a  fight ! 
WINWOOD.     A  devil  fly  off  with  the  money  !     The  rebels  have 

taken  my  horse  —  a  plague  rot  them  ! 
GORING.     Faith,  I'd  care  not,  if  the  prick-eared  brethren  had 

not  got  me,  and  got  me  fast.       'Tis  your  throw,   Tom 

Winwood. 

[Winwood  takes  the  dice-box,  but  pauses,  anxiously  awaiting 

an  answer  to  Hopton's  next  question. 
HOPTON.     What  think  you,  Captain  Bowyer.     Are  they  like 

to  admit  us  speedily  to  ransom? 

[Bowyer  shakes  his  head,  smiling,  half  indifferent. 
GORING.     You're  swift  to  grumble,  Frank.     You've  not  been 

yet  ten  hours  a  prisoner.     Throw,  Tom,  a  wildfire  burn 

you! 

WINWOOD.     There,  then  !      And  vengeance  profitable  gam 
ing  !     We  can't  muster  four  farthings  amongst  us. 
GORING.     Curse  it,  man,  we  play  for  love  and  sport !     I've 

never  yet  had  enough  of  casting  the  dice.     Look  you, 

(casts  the  dice)  I  better  you  by  three. 
WINWOOD.     On  my  life,  no !     I  threw  a  tray  and  quatre. 
GORING.     Go  to  with  your  jesting !     You  mean  a  tray  and 

deuce. 


ALLISON'S  LAD  219 


WINWOOD.     Tray  and  quatre  I  threw. 

GORING  (starts  to  his  feet,  with  his  hand  leaping  to  draw  the 

sword  which,  as  a  prisoner,  he  no  longer  wears).     Will  you 

give  me  the  lie  in  my  teeth  ? 
WINWOOD  (pluckily  springs  to  his  feet,  with  the  same  impulse) . 

Aye,  if  you  say  I  threw  — 

[At  the  sound  of  the  angry  voices  and  of  the  stools  thrust  back, 

Strickland  opens  his  eyes  and  glances  toward  the  brawlers. 
BOWYER  (laying  a  heavy  hand  upon  a  shoulder  of  each) .     Hold 

your  tongues,  you  shuttle-headed  fools  ! 

[Thrusts  Goring  down  into  his  seat. 
HOPTON.     You'll  rouse  the  Colonel,  and  he  ill  and  wounded. 

Sit  you  down  again ! 
WINWOOD  (dropping  sullenly  into  his  place).     Yet  'twas  a 

tray  and  quatre. 
GORING.     Frank,  you  saw  the  cast.     A  tray  and  deuce,  and 

I  will  so  maintain  it. 

[The  three  at  table  talk  heatedly  in  dumb-show,  Hopton  play 
ing  the  peace-maker,  until  at  last  he  wins  the  disputants  to 

shake   hands.      Meantime  Bowyer   has   gone   anxiously   to 

Strickland's  side. 
BOWYER.     How  is  it  with  you,  Will,  old  lad  ?     Your  wound 

is  easier? 

STRICKLAND.     My  wound  ?     'Tis  nothing,  I  tell  you. 
BOWYER.     Why,  then,  take  heart!  Matters  might  well  be 

worse. 

[He  takes  a  candle  from  the  chimneypiece,  and  relights  his 

pipe. 

STRICKLAND.     Cold  comfort,  George  ! 
BOWYER.     We  are  defeated,  prisoners,  yes,  I  grant  you.     Yet 

we  have  fought  our  best.     And  for  the  future  —  by  this 

light,  our  enemies  have  used  us  handsomely  so  far !     No 

doubt  they'll  speedily  accept  of  ransom. 
STRICKLAND  (with  eyes  fixed  on  Winwood).     From  my  heart 

I  hope  so ! 
BOWYER.     Aye,  to  be  taken  thus  in  his  first  fight,  'tis  pity 

for  little  Tom  Winwood. 


ALLISON'S  LAD 


STRICKLAND.     You  say  — 

BOWYKR.     Tis  of  the  lad  yonder  that  you  are  thinking. 

STRICKLAND.     Yes.     I  was  thinking  of  Allison's  lad. 

[As  the  result  of  Hopton's  persuasion.,    Winwood  at  that 
moment  is  most  heartily  drinking  a  health  to  Goring. 

BOWYER.  My  cousin  Allison's  boy.  Look  but  upon  him 
now !  A  half  minute^agone  he  and  Rob  Goring  were  ready 
to  fly  at  each  other's  throats  and  now  they  drink  good- 
fellowship  together.  Faith,  by  times  young  Tom  is 
monstrous  like  unto  his  father. 

STRICKLAND.  Your  pardon !  Tom  is  his  mother's  son, 
Allison's  lad,  every  inch  of  him  —  every  thought  of  him. 
There's  no  taint  of  the  father  in  the  boy. 

BOWYER.  Yes.  I  wonder  not  that  you  speak  thus  of  Jack 
Winwood.  'Twas  a  damnable  trick  he  served  you.  when 
he  won  Allison  from  you  with  his  false  tales. 

STRICKLAND.  Aye,  and  well-nigh  broke  her  heart  thereafter 
with  his  baseness.  You  stood  beside  me,  George,  there  at 
Edgehill,  when  we  looked  upon  the  death-wound  —  in  his 
back! 

BOWYER.  Poor  wretch  !  Gallant  enough  at  the  charge,  but 
at  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  he'd  no  more  courage  than  — 

STRICKLAND.  He  was  a  coward,  and  false  from  first  to 
last. 

For  God's  sake,  George,  never  say  that  boy  is  like  his 
father  !     For  his  mother's  sake  — 

BOWYER.  Aye,  'twould  go  near  to  killing  Allison,  should 
Tom  prove  craven. 

STRICKLAND.     He'll  never  prove  craven.     He's  his  mother's 
son.     Let  be,  George !     I'm  in  no  mood  for  speech. 
[Bowyer  goes  back  to  the  table,  where  Winwood,  in  the  last 
minutes,  has  played  with  notable  listlessness  and  indifference. 

HOPTON.     'Tis  your  cast,  Tom. 

WINWOOD.     Nay,  but  I'm  done ! 

GORING.     Will  you  give  over? 

WINWOOD.     But  for  a  moment.     My  pipe  is  out. 
[Rises  and  goes  to  Strickland. 


ALLISON'S  LAD 


HOPTON.     Come,  Captain!     In  good  time!     Bear  a  hand 

with  us. 

[Bowyer  sits  in  Winwood's  place  at  table,  and  dices. 
WINWOOD.     You  called  me,  sir  ? 
STRICKLAND.     I  did  not  call,  but  I  was  thinking  of  you.     Sit 

you  down! 

(Winwood  sits  on  a  stool  at  the  opposite  side  of  the  hearth,  and 

cleans  and  fills  his  pipe) 

I  watched  you  to-day,  Tom.     You  bore  yourself  fairly  in 

the  fight.     I  was  blithe  to  see  it. 
WINWOOD.     God  willing,  you'll  see  better  in  the  next  fight, 

sir. 
STRICKLAND.     Go  to  !     You  did  all  that  might  be  asked  of 

a  youth  for  the  first  time  under  fire. 
WINWOOD.     Ah,  but  'twas  my  second  time  under  fire,  sir. 
STRICKLAND.     Second  time  ?     How's  that,  my  boy  ? 
WINWOOD.     Last  June,  faith,  I  was  at  Bletchingley   when 

we  held  the  house  four  hours  against  the  rebels,  my  school 

fellow,   Lord   Bletchingley,   and   I,   and   the  servants.     I 

came  by  a  nick  in  the  arm  there.     I  still  have  the  scar  to 

show. 

[Rises  eagerly,  and  puts  back  his  sleeve  to  show  the  scar. 
STRICKLAND  (lightly).     'Twas  right  unfriendly  of  you,  Tom, 

to  keep  me  so  in  the  dark,  touching  your  exploits. 
WINWOOD  (half  embarrassed  with  the  sense  of  having  said  too 

much,  turns  from  Strickland  and  lights  his  pipe  with  the 

candle  that  he  takes  from  the  chimney-piece).     Truth  sir,  I 

was  shamed  to  speak  to  you  of  Bletchingley. 
STRICKLAND.     Shamed  ?     What  do  you  talk  of  ? 
WINWOOD.     Why,  our  fight  at  Bletchingley,  it  must  seem 

mere  child's  play  unto  you,  a  tried  soldier,  my  father's 

old  comrade. 

[He.speaks  the  word  "father"  with  all  the  proper  pride  thai 

a  son  should  show. 
STRICKLAND.     But    your    mother.     She    would    have   been 

proud  to  know  that  you  had  borne  you  well  in  the  fight. 

You  should  have  told  her,  Tom. 


ALLISON'S  LAD 


WINWOOD  (in  swift  alarm).     Told  my  mother?     Why,  sir, 
she  —  she    would    have    been    troubled.     Perchance    she 
would  not  have  heard  to  my  going  out  for  the  King  with 
you,  because  of  Bletchingley. 
STRICKLAND.     Why  because  of  Bletchingley  ? 
WINWOOD.     Why?     Well,  you  see,  sir  —  sure,  'twas  there 
I  had  this  wound. 

[Reseats  himself  on  the  stool  opposite  Strickland. 
STRICKLAND.     And  for  that  you  think  she  would  have  kept 
you  from  the  field  ?     Lad,  you  do  not  altogether  know  your 
mother. 

[Bowyer,  at  the  end  of  a  talk  in  dumb-show  with  Goring  and 
Hopton,  has  risen,  and  now  goes  out  at  the  single  door,  wide 
and  heavy,  that  leads  from  the  chamber  center  lack  to  the 
outer  corridor.  At  the  sound  of  the  closing  of  the  door, 
Strickland  starts. 
What  was  that  ? 

GORING    (rises  and  salutes).     'Twas   Captain   Bowyer,   sir, 
went  into  the  outer  room  to  speak  with  the  sentries. 
[Reseats  himself. 
HOPTON.     Heaven  send  he  get  them  to  talk !     I'd  fain  know 

what's  to  become  of  us. 

GORING  (stretching  himself).     Go  sleep,  like  a  wise  man,  and 
cease  your  fretting ! 

[He  presently  rests  his  head  on  his  folded  arms,  which  he 
places  on  the  table,  and  goes  to  sleep. 

STRICKLAND.     Sound  advice,  Tom !     You  were  best  take  it. 

WINWOOD  (smoking  throughout).     Sleep?     How  can  I,  sir? 

I  would  it  were  day.     I  hate  this  odd  and  even  time  o* 

night.     What  think  you  will  come  of  us  ? 

STRICKLAND.     What  matters  it,  boy  ?     We  have  fought  our 

fight,  and  you  bore  yourself  gallantly,  Tom. 
WINWOOD.     Easy  to  do,  sir,  in  the  daylight,  with  your  com 
rades  about  you,  but  this  —  this  waiting  in  the  dark ! 
God !     I  would  it  were  day.     At  two  in  the  morning  I've 
no  more  courage  than  — 
STRICKLAND  (in  sharp  terror).     Tom  !     Hold  your  peace. 


ALLISON'S   LAD  223 


[Bowyer  comes  again  into  the  room.     H  opt  on  springs  eagerly 

to  his  feet. 

HOPTON.     What  news,  Captain  ? 

BOWYER.     Bad.     They're  quitting  the  village  this  same  hour. 
GORING.     A  retreat  by  night  ? 

[Rises  and  confers  in  dumb-show  with  Hopton. 
BOWYER.     Your  wound  cannot  endure  this  hasty  moving, 

Will.       In  mere  humanity  they  must  let  you  rest  here  at 

the  inn.     You'll  give  them  your  parole. 
STRICKLAND.     You'll  talk  to  our  captors  of  paroles,  after  so 

many  paroles  have  been  broken  by  men  that  are  a  shame 

unto  our  party  ? 
BOWYER.     But  you  are  known  for  a  man  of  honor.     And  by 

happy  chance  the  colonel  in  command  of  these  rebels  has 

come  hither  within  the  hour.     He  will  listen  to  me.     I  knew 

him  of  old  —  one  John  Drummond. 
WINWOOD.     Drummond ! 

[His  hand  clenches  convulsively  upon  his  pipe,  which  snaps 

sharply  under  the  pressure. 

Colonel  Drummond  enters  the  room.     He  is  a  grave,  stern 

gentleman  of  middle  age,  in  military  dress,  with  cuirass,  and 

sword  at  side.     Winwood,  at  his  entrance,  shifts  his  position 

so  that  his  back  is  toward  him,  and  sits  thus,  with  head  bent 

and  hands  tight  clenched. 

BOWYER.     In  good  time,  Colonel  Drummond ! 
DRUMMOND  (throughout  idth  the  fine  dignity  of  a  soldier  and  a 

gentleman).     I  fear  not,  Captain.     There  are  three  of  you 

here  in  presence  with  whom  I  must  have  a  word.     (Seats 

himself  at  table)  Lieutenant  Goring  ! 
GORING  (loith  some  swagger).  Well,  sir? 
DRUMMOND.  At  Raglan  Castle  you  gave  your  promise  never 

again  to  bear  arms  against  the  Parliament.     Now  that  you 

are  taken  with  arms  in  your  hands,  have  you  aught  to 

say  in  your  defense  ? 

GORING.     Before  I  gave  that  promise  to  your  damned  usurp 
ing  Parliament,  I  swore  to  serve  the  King.     I  keep  the 

earlier  oath. 


224  ALLISON'S  LAD 


DEUMMOND.     And  for  that  you  will  answer  in  this  hour. 

Now  you,  Mr.  Hopton  ! 
BOWYER.     Frank  Hopton,  too? 
DRUMMOND.     What   defense   is   yours   for   your   breach  of 

parole  ? 
HOPTON.     It  was  forced  from  me.     A  forced  promise,  faith, 

'tis  void  in  the  courts  of  law. 

DRUMMOND.     It  well  may  be,  but  not  in  a  court  of  war. 
STRICKLAND.     George  !     Did  he  say  there  were  —  three  had 

broken  faith? 
DRUMMOND.     And  now  for  you,  Thomas  Winwood ! 

[Winwood  starts  to  his  feet,  but  does  not  face  Drummond. 
BOWYER.     Tom  !     Not  you  ! 
DRUMMOND.     Last  June  at  Bletchingley,  you,  sir,  gave  to 

me  personally  your  word  of  honor  never  again  to  take  up 

arms  — 
STRICKLAND  (rising,  for  the  moment  unwounded,  with  all  his 

strength] .     Face  that  scoundrel !  Face  him  and  tell  him 

that  he  lies ! 

WINWOOD  (unwillingly  turns  and  faces  Drummond,  but  stam 
mers  when  he  tries  to  speak) .     I  —  I  — 
STRICKLAND.     Speak  out ! 
DRUMMOND.     Well,  Mr.  Winwood? 
STRICKLAND.     Answer  !     The  truth  !     The  truth  !    Have  you 

broken  your  parole  ? 
WINWOOD  (desperately  at  bay,  with  his  back  to  the  wall,  his 

comely  young  face  for  the  moment  the  face  of  his  coward  and 

trickster  father).     God's  death!     I've  done  no  more  than 

a  hundred  others  have  done.     They've  not  kept  faith 

with  us,  the  cursed  rebels.     Why  the  fiend's  name  should 

we  keep  faith  with  them?     It  was  a  forced    promise. 

And  the  King,  I  was  fain  to  serve  him,  as  my  father  served 

him,  like  my  father  — 
STRICKLAND.     Like  your  father  !    (He  staggers  where  he  stands, 

a  wounded  man,  a  sick  man — mortally  sick  at  heart)  Allison's 

lad! 
BOWYER  (catching  Strickland  as  he  staggers).     Will ! 


ALLISON'S  LAD  225 


STRICKLAND  (masters  himself  and  stands  erect) .  Let  be ! 
Colonel  Drummond,  I  ask  your  pardon  for  my  words,  a 
moment  since.  I  could  not  believe  —  I  could  not  be 
lieve  — 

(He  sinks  upon  his  chair)  He  is  his  father's  son,  George ! 
His  father's  son ! 

DRUMMOND.     Come  here,  Winwood  ! 

(Heavily  Winwood  goes  across  the  room  and  halts  by  the 
table,  but  throughout  he  keeps  his  dazed  and  miserable  eyes 
on  Strickland) 

You  realize  well,  the  three  of  you,  that  by  the  breaking  of 
your  paroles  you  have  forfeited  your  lives  unto  the  Par 
liament. 

HOPTON.     Our  lives  ?     You've  no  warrant  — 

DRUMMOND  (laying  his  hand  upon  the  hilt  of  his  sword).  I 
have  good  warrant  —  here.  I  was  minded  first  to  stand 
the  three  of  you  against  the  wall  in  the  court  below  and 
have  you  shot,  in  the  presence  of  your  misguided  followers. 

^BOWYER.     Colonel  Drummond,  I  do  protest ! 

DRUMMOND.  You  waste  your  words,  sir.  This  hour  I  pur 
pose  to  give  a  lesson  to  all  the  promise-breakers  of  your 
party. 

GORING.     You  purpose,  then,  to  butcher  us,  all  three  ? 

DRUMMOND.  Your  pardon !  Two  of  you  I  shall  admit  to 
mercy.  The  third  - 

HOPTON.     Well !     Which  of  us  is  to  be  the  third  ? 

DRUMMOND.  You  may  choose  by  lot  which  one  of  you  shall 
suffer.  You  have  dice  here.  Throw,  and  he  who  throws 
lowest  — 

HOPTON  (with  a  burst  of  half  hysterical  laughter).  Heaven's 
light,  Rob,  for  once  ye'll  have  enough  of  casting  the  dice ! 

DRUMMOND.     Winwood,  you  are  the  youngest.     You  shall 
throw  first.     Winwood ! 
[Winwood  stands  as  if  dazed,  his  eyes  still  on  Strickland. 

GORING.     Are  you  gone  deaf,  Tom  Winwood? 

WINWOOD  (thrusts  out  a  groping  hand) .  I  —  I  —  Give  me  the 
dice! 


226  ALLISON'S  LAD 


HOPTON  (putting  the  dice-box  into  Winwood's  hand) .     Here ! 

Be  quick ! 

[A  moment's  pause,  while  Winwood,  with  twitching  face, 

shakes  the  box  and  shakes  again. 
GORING.  For  God's  love,  throw ! 
WINWOOD  (throws,  uncovers  dice,  and  averts  his  eyes).  What 

is  it? 
DRUMMOND.     Seven  is  your  cast.     You,  Hopton  ! 

[Feverishly  Hopton  snatches  the  box,  shakes,  and  casts  quickly. 

Eleven ! 
HOPTON    (almost  hysterically).     God   be   thanked   for   good 

luck  !     God  be  thanked  ! 
GORING.     Damn  you  !     Hold  your  tongue  ! 

[Hopton  snatches  a  cup  from  the  table  and  drinks  thirstily. 

Goring  throws  and  holds  dice  for  a  moment  covered. 

It's  between  us  now,  Tom ! 
WINWOOD  (wiping  his  forehead  with  his  sleeve).     Yes. 

[Goring  uncovers  the  dice. 

DRUMMOND.       Eight  ! 

GORING  (with  a  long  breath  of  relief) .     Ah  ! 

DRUMMOND  (rising) .  The  lot  has  fallen  upon  you,  Mr.  Win- 
wood. 

WINWOOD.     I  am  —  at  your  disposal,  sir. 

DRUMMOND.  You  have  ten  minutes  in  which  to  make  you 
ready. 

GORING.     Ten  minutes ! 

[Winwood  sinks  heavily  into  his  old  seat  at  table.  Presently 
he  draws  to  him  the  dice  and  box,  and  mechanically  throws 
again  and  again. 

BOWYER  (intercepting  Drummond,  as  he  turns  to  leave  the  room). 
You  shall  listen  to  me,  Drummond.  The  boy's  my  kins 
man.  He  — 

DRUMMOND.     Stand  aside,  George  Bowyer! 
[He  goes  out  of  the  room. 

BOWYER  (following  Drummond  out).     Yet  you  shall  listen! 
7  Drummond  !     Listen  to  me  ! 

HOPTON.     But  'tis  mere  murder.     'Tis  against  all  law. 


ALLISON'S  LAD  227 


GORING.     Will   you  prattle    of    law   to   Cromwell's    men? 
(Comes  to  table  and  lays  a  hand  on  Winwood's  shoulder) 
Tom,  lad,  I  would  we  could  help  you. 

WINWOOD.  I've  thrown  the  double  six  —  twice.  'Tis  mon 
strous  droll,  eh,  Rob  ?  Before  —  I  could  throw  no  higher 
than  seven  —  no  higher  than  seven  ! 

[His  voice  rises  higher  and  higher,  and  breaks  into  shrill 
laughter. 

GORING.     Steady  !  Steady,  lad  ! 

[Strickland  looks  up,  as  if  rousing  from  a  trance. 

HOPTON  (hastly  fills  a  cup  and  offers  it  to  Winwood).  Here, 
Tom,  dri^k  this  down. 

WINWOOD  (snatches  the  cup  and  starts  to  drink,  but  in  the  act 
looks  up  and  reads  in  his  comrades'  faces  the  fear  that  is  on 
them,  that  he  is  about  to  disgrace  the  colors  that  he  wears. 
He  sets  down  the  cup) .  You  —  you  think  —  Will  you 
-  leave  me  —  for  these  minutes  ?  A'  God's  name,  let 
me  be ! 

[Hopton  and  Goring  draw  away  to  the  window  and  stand 
watching  Winwood  anxiously.  He  has  taken  up  the  dice- 
box,  and  again  is  mechanically  casting  the  dice. 

HOPTON.     How  will  he  bear  himself  yonder  ? 

GORING.     You  mean  — 

HOPTON.     There  in  the  courtyard,  when  they  - 

GORING.     Speak  lower ! 

STRICKLAND  (rises  with  effort,  crosses,  and  lays  his  hand  on 
Winwood' s  shoulder) .  Tom  ! 

WINWOOD  (starting  up,  furiously).  You're  ashamed  of  me! 
You're  ashamed!  Don't  pity  me!  Let  me  be!  Curse 
you,  let  me  be  ! 

STRICKLAND  (sternly).     Tom  !     Look  at  me  ! 

WINWOOD  (turns  defiantly,  meets  Strickland's  eyes,  and  des 
perately  clings  to  him).  I  can't!  I  can't!  If  they'll 
wait  till  it's  light  —  but  now  —  in  the  ^ark  —  Make 
them  wait  till  morning  !  I  can't  bear  it !  I  x'.-tm't  bear  it ! 

STRICKLAND.  Be  still !  You  must  face  it,  and  face  it  gal 
lantly. 


228  ALLISON'S  LAD 


WINWOOD  (stands  erect,  fighting  hard  for  self-control).  Gal 
lantly.  Yes.  My  father  —  he  died  for  the  King.  I 
mustn't  disgrace  him.  I  must  bear  myself  as  he  would 
have  done.  I  — 

STRICKLAND.     Don't  speak  of  him !     Think  on  your  mother. 

WINWOOD.  Must  you  tell  her  —  why  they  shot  me  ?  She 
would  think  of  it  —  of  that  broken  promise  —  as  a  woman 
might.  God's  life !  Why  will  you  judge  me  so  ?  My 
father  would  have  understood. 

STRICKLAND.     Yes.     He  would  have  understood  you  well. 

WINWOOD.  What  do  you  mean  ?  I'm  a  coward  —  a  promise 
breaker.  You  think  that.  But  my  father  —  he  died  for 
the  King.  He  — 

(In  Strickland's  face  he  reads  that  of  which  in  all  these  years  he 
has  been  kept  in  ignorance) 
How  did  my  father  die  ? 

STRICKLAND.     Not  now,  Tom  ! 
[Bowyer  comes  again  into  the  room. 

WINWOOD  (almost  beside  himself) .  Answer  me !  Answer  me  ! 
Bowyer !  You're  my  cousin.  Tell  me  the  truth !  As 
God  sees  us !  How  did  my  father  die  ?  How  did  my 
father  live?  You  won't  answer?  You've  lied!  You've 
lied!  All  of  you  —  all  these  years!  He  was  a  coward. 
You  don't  deny  it !  A  coward  —  a  false  coward  —  and 
I'm  his  son !  I'm  his  son  ! 

[Sinks  upon  a  stool,  by  the  table,  with  face  hidden,  and  breaks 
into  rending  sobs. 

BOWYER.     Will !  Will !  You  can  bear  no  more. 

STRICKLAND  (shakes  off  Bowyer's  arm  and  goes  to  Winwood). 
Stand  up!  Stand  up!  You  are  your  mother's  son  as 
well  as  his ! 

WINWOOD  (rising  blindly,  as  if  Strickland's  voice  alone  had 
power  to  lift  him).  A  coward!  You  see.  Like  him.  And 
there  in  the  courtyard-  Ah,  God!  I'll  break!  I'll 
break ! 

STRICKLAND.  You  will  not.  For  her  sake  —  for  her  blood 
that  is  in  you  —  Allison's  lad ! 


ALLISON'S  LAD 


WINWOOD  (with  slow  comprehension).     You  —  loved   her! 
STRICKLAND.     Yes.     And  love  that  part  of  her  that  is  in 

you.     And  know  that  you  will  bear  you  well  unto  the  end. 
WINWOOD.     I'll  —  I'll-      It's    not    the    death.     It's    not 

that.     It's    the    moment  —  before    the    bullet—     God! 

If  I  fail  —  if  I  fail  — 
STRICKLAND.     You  will  not  fail. 
WINWOOD.     You  believe  that?     You  can  believe  that  of 

me? 

STRICKLAND.     I  believe  that,  Tom. 
BOWTER.     Will  !     The  ten  minutes  are  ended. 
STRICKLAND.     So  soon  !     So  soon  ! 
fiowYER.     Drummond  will  suffer  me  be  with  him  to  the  last. 

Come,  Tom,  my  lad  ! 

[Goes  up,  and  from  a  chair  beside  the  door  takes  a  heavy 

military  cloak  —  which  shall  thereafter  serve  as  Winwood's 

shroud.     He  holds  it  throughout  so  that  Winwood  may  not 

mark  it. 
WINWOOD   (takes  his  hat,  and  turns  to  Goring  and  Hopton, 

with  a  pitiful  effort  at  jauntiness).     God  be  wi'  you,  boys  ! 

(Crosses,  and  holds  out  his  hand  to  Strickland)     Sir  William  ! 

I'll  —  try.     But  —  can't  you  help  me  ?     Can't  you  help 

me  when  — 

[Clings  to  Strickland's  hand. 
STRICKLAND.     I  can  help  you.     You  shall  bear  you  as  be 

comes  her  son. 
WINWOOD.     Aye,  sir. 

STRICKLAND.     And  I  shall  know  it,     God  keep  you  ! 
WINWOOD  (faces  about,  to  Bowyer).     I  am  ready,  sir.     (Goes 

to  door,  and  on  the  threshold  wheels  and  stands  at  salute)     You 

shall  have  news  of  me,  Sir  William  ! 

[Winwood  goes  out,  and  Bowyer,  with  the  cloak,  follows  after 

him. 

HOPTON.     What  did  he  mean  ? 
GORING.     He'll  die  bravely,  poor  lad,  I'll  swear  to  that  ! 

[Strickland  sways  slightly  where  he  stands. 

Sir  William  !     You're  near  to  swooning.     Sit  you  down,  sir. 


230  ALLISON'S  LAD 


STRICKLAND.     I  pray  you,  gentlemen,  for  these  moments  do 

not  disturb  me. 

[Stands  upon  the  hearth,  erect,  steady,  and  very  still. 
HOPTON.     Truth,  the  man's  made  of  stone.     I  thought  he 

had  loved  poor  Winwood  as  his  own  son. 
COKING.     Quiet,  will  you  ? 
.  [Removes  his  hat. 
HOPTCN.*   What  — 

1   GORING.     Think  on  what's  happening  in  the  courtyard,  man  ! 
;        [A  moment's  pause,  and  then  from  below,  in  the  rainy  court 
yard,  is  heard  the  report  of  a  muffled  volley^ 
HOPTON.     Hark ! 

STRICKLAND  (in  an  altered,  remote  voice) .     Well  done ! 
GORING.     Grant  that  he  made  a  clean  ending ! 
*       *•»     STRICKLAND  (turns  slowly,  with  eyes  fixed  before  him,  and  the 

sudden  smile  of  one  who  greets  a  friend) .     Tom  !     Well  done, 

Allison's  lad ! 
V  [Pitches  forward. 

GORING    (catching    Strickland   in   his   arms) .     Sir   William ! 

Help  here,  Frank ! 

[They  place  Strickland  in  his  chair.     Goring  starts  to  loosen 

his  neck  gear.     Hopton  kneels  and  lays  his  hand  on  Strick- 
"**""*  land's  heart.     On  the  moment  Bowyer  comes  swiftly  into  the 

room. 
BOWYER.     Will !     Will !     The  lad  died  gallantly.     He  went 

as  if  a  strong  arm  were  round  him. 
HOPTON  (lets  fall  the  hand  that  he  has  laid  on  Strickland's 

heart.     Speaks  in  an  awe-struck  voice).     Perhaps  ther^  was  ! 
GORING  (rises  erect  from  bending  over  Strickland) .     Captain  ! 

Sir  William  - 

[Bowyer  catches  the  note  in  Goring' *s  voice,  and  removes  his 

hat,  as  he  stands  looking  upon  what  he  now  knows  to  be  the 

dead  body  of  his  friend  and  leader. 

CURTAIN 


MRS.   PAT  AND  THE  LAW 

MARY  ALDIS 

MRS.  ARTHUR  ALDIS  (MARY  ALOIS)  was  born  in  Chicago, 
Illinois,  July  8,  1872,  and  was  educated  at  St.  Mary's  School, 
Knoxville,  Illinois.  In  1892  she  married  Mr.  Arthur  Aldis. 

She  founded  (1910)  the  Playhouse  of  Lake  Forest,  Illinois, 
a  Little  Theatre  at  her  country  home.  This  playhouse  was 
one  of  the  first  of  the  typical  Little  Theatres  which  have 
developed  so  widely  throughout  the  country.  There  Mrs. 
Aldis  produced  not  only  her  own  plays,  but,  in  addition, 
many  notable  works  of  foreign  and  American  playwrights. 

Many  of  her  one-act  plays  have  been  published  in  book 
form  under  the  title  of  "Mrs.  Pat  and  the  Law,  and  Other 
Plays  "  (1915) .  She  has  also  written  "  Florence  Nightingale  " 
(a  pamphlet,  1914);  "The  Princess  Jack",  1915;  "Flash 
lights",  1916;  and  "Drift",  1918. 

The  story  of  "Mrs.  Pat  and  the  Law"  was  taken  directly 
from  life.  Mrs.  Aldis  has  been  greatly  interested  in  district 
nursing  for  many  years  and  heard  the  story  of  the  plot  from 
one  of  the  Chicago  nurses. 


MRS.   PAT  AND  THE   LAW 


BY  MARY  ALDIS 


"Mrs.  Pat  and  the  Law"  was  originally  produced  Sep 
tember  14,  1913,  at  the  Aldis  Playhouse,  for  the  amusement 
of  some  visiting  nurses. 


Original  Cast 

PAT        Benjamin  Carpenter 

MRS.  PAT Mary  Aldis 

JIMMY,  their  son Polly  Chase 

Miss  CARROLL Isabel  McBirney 

JOHN  BING     ....  Charles  Atkinson 


COPYRIGHT,  1915,  BY  DUPPIELD  AND  COMPANY. 
All  rights  reserved. 

Reprinted  from  "Plays  for  Small  Stages"  by  permission  of,  and  special  arrange 
ment  with,  Mrs.  Arthur  Aldis  and  Duffield  and  Company. 

Application  for  the  right  of  performing  "Mrs.  Pat  and  the  Law"  must  be  made  to 
Mrs.  Arthur  Aldis,  Lake  Forest,  Illinois. 


MBS.    PAT  AND   THE   LAW 

SCENE.  A  small,  poor  room  in  a  tenement  flat.  Cook-stove, 
back;  shabby  lounge,  front;  at  left,  kitchen  table  with  a  faded 
flower  in  a  bottle;  a  wash-tub  on  bench,  centre  left,  back  near 
door.  At  left,  door  to  bedroom.  At  right,  door  to  hallway. 

When  the  curtain  rises  Nora  0' Flaherty  is  discovered  at  the 
wash-tub.     She  is  a  large  woman,  with  a  worn,  sweet  face, 
across  her  forehead  an  ugly  red  cut.     The  room  is  untidy,  and 
so  is  Nora.      The  stove  is  blazing  hot.     After  stirring  the  clothes 
in  the  boiler  Nora  wipes  her  face  with  the  back  of  her  hand  and 
sighs  wearily  as  she  puts  afresh  lot  into  the  tub  of  suds. 
JIMMIE  (speaking  from  bedroom) .     Maw,  what  time  is  it  ? 
NORA.     Most  tin,  Jimmie-boy. 
JIMMIE.     Whin'll  Miss  Carroll  come? 
NORA.     Well,  now,  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  she'd  be  comin' 

along  the  shtreet  and  oup  the  shtairs  and  right  in  at  that 

door  about  the  time  the  clock  gits  'round  to  half  past  tin, 

or  maybe  it's  sooner  she'll  be.      Do  you  think  it's  a  flower 

she'll  be  bringin'  to-day,  Jimmie-boy  ? 
JIMMIE.     To-day's  Tuesday,  ain't  it  ? 
NORA.     Shure ! 
JIMMIE.     There's  no  tellin'.     Sometimes  she  says  there  ain't 

enough  to  go  'round. 

[A  pause. 
NORA  (sorting  out  clothes).     Sakes  alive  —  the  wash  that's 

on  me  !     I'll  niver  git  through. 

[A  short  silence. 

JIMMIE.     Maw,  what  time  is  it  now  ? 
NORA.     Well,  I  couldn't  rightly  say,  the  steam  bein'  in  me 

eyes  like.     Faith,  ye  must  bear  in  mind   there's    many 


236  MRS.   PAT  AND  THE  LAW 

that's  needin'  her.  Maybe  at  this  very  minute  it's  a  new 
born  baby  just  come  into  the  world  she's  tendin',  or  an 
ould  man  just  goin'  out  of  it !  She'll  be  comin'  soon  now, 
I'll  warrant  ye. 

JIMMIE.  But,  Maw,  me  leg  hurts,  and  Paw  takes  all  the 
room  in  the  bed,  he's  sleepin'  so  noisy ! 

NORA.  Och,  Jimmie  darlin',  have  a  little  patience!  Me 
name's  not  Nora  O'Flaherty  if  Miss  Carroll  don't  bring  us 
a  flower  this  day,  or  if  there  ain't  enought  to  go  'round, 
shure  it's  the  bright  happy  worrd  or  the  little  joke  or  plan 
she'll  have  in  her  mind  for  ye  'ull  hearten  the  day  as  well 
as  a  flower. 
[Another  pause. 

JIMMIE.     Maw !     Ain't  it  half  past  tin  yit  ? 

NORA.  Oh,  laddie,  an'  I  hadn't  the  great  wash  on  me  hands 
I'd  dance  a  jig  t'  amuse  ye  !  Shure  many's  the  song  I've 
sung  an'  the  jig  I've  danced  whin  I  was  a  slip  o'  a  gurrl 
back  in  the  ould  counthree,  afore  I  had  the  four  of  yiz  and 
yer  Paw  to  look  af  ther  !  Now  it's  me  arrms  have  need  to 
move  livelier  than  me  legs,  I'm  thinkin*.  Listen,  now,  an* 
I'll  see  if  I  can  call  to  mind  a  little  song  for  ye.  (Sings, 
keeping  time  with  the  wash-board) 

There  was  a  lady  lived  at  Rhin, 

A  lady  very  stylish,  man  — 
But  she  snapped  her  fingers  at  all  her  kin 

And  —  she  fell  in  love  wid  an  Irishman. 

A  wild  tremenjous  Irishman, 

A  rampin',  stampin'  Irishman, 
A  devil-may-take-'em  —  Bad  as  you  make  'em  — 

Fascinatin'  Irishman ! 

Oh,  wan  o'  his  een  was  bottle  green 
And  the  tother  wan  was  out,  me  dear, 
An*  the  calves  o'  his  wicked  twinklin'  legs 
Were  two  feet  'round  about,  me  dear. 
Oh  —  the  slashin',  dashin'  Irishman  — 
The  blatherin',  scatherin*  Irishman, 


MRS.   PAT  AND   THE   LAW  237 

A  whiskey,  frisky,  rummy,  gummy, 
Brandy,  dandy  Irishman ! 

An*  that  was  the  lad  the  lady  loved 

Like  all  the  gurrls  o'  quality. 
He'd  smash  all  the  skulls  o*  the  men  o'  Rhin 

Just  by  the  way  o'  jollity. 

Oh,  the  rattlin',  battlin'  Irishman ! 

The  thumpin',  bumpin'  Irishman, 
The  great  he-rogue,  wid  his  roarin'  brogue ! 

The  laughin',  quaffin'  Irishman  ! l 

There's  a  song  fer  ye  now !     Ha,  Jimrnie-boy,  I'm  thinkin' 
that  song  'u'd  had  more  sense  an'  it  told  what  she  did 
wid  her  rampin',  roarin'  Irishman  wanst  she  got  married 
to  him. 
[Knock  on  the  hall  door. 

JIMMIE.     Ah,  that's  her  ! 

NORA.  There!  Didn't  I  tell  ye?  (Nora  wipes  her  hands 
and  hurries  to  open  the  door,  admitting  Miss  Carroll) .  Ah  ! 
Miss  Carroll  dear,  it's  welcome  ye  are  this  day.  Jimmie's 
been  watchin'  and  wearyin'  for  ye  since  the  daylight 
dawned.  How  are  ye  ? 

[She  has  turned  away  as  Miss  Carroll  enters  so  as  to  conceal 
her  head,  but  Miss  Carroll  catches  sight  of  it  and,  taking  hold 
of  her  arm,  turns  her  around. 

MISS  CARROLL.  Why,  Mrs.  O'Flaherty,  what  an  awful  cut ! 
You  look  as  if  you  had  been  hit  with  an  axe ! 

NORA.     Oh,  git  along  with  ye  ! 

MISS  CARROLL.     How  did  it  happen  ? 

NORA.  Shure,  'twas  nothin'  at  all  but  his  boot,  and  he  that 
unstiddy  he  couldn't  aim  shtraight !  It's  'most  well  now. 
[She  turns  to  tub. 

MISS  CARROLL  (taking  off  her  coat  and  opening  her  satchel). 
It  isn't  "'most  well."  It's  a  fresh  wound  and  a  bad,  deep 
cut.  As  I've  told  you  before,  I've  no  patience  with  you 
for  putting  up  with  such  treatment.  Don't  you  know 

1  After  Wm.  McGinn. 


288  MRS.   PAT  AND  THE  LAW 

the  law  would  protect  you?  You  ought  to  swear  out  a 
warrant  for  your  husband's  arrest  on  the  grounds  of  per 
sonal  violence.  That  might  teach  him  a  lesson.  This  is 
the  third  time  now  in  a  month  he's  struck  you.  It's  out 
rageous  !  Has  he  got  a  job  yet  ? 

JIMMIE.  Ain't  you  comin',  Miss  Carroll?  Me  leg  hurts 
awful. 

MISS  CARROLL.  Yes,  Jimmie-boy,  in  a  minute.  (She  has  been 
getting  hot  water  from  the  stove,  preparing  cotton  gauze,  etc., 
for  dressing.  She  stops  a  moment  in  her  work  and  regards 
Mrs.  0' Flaherty)  Has  he  got  a  job  yet  ? 

NORA.     He  had  work  last  week. 

MISS  CARROLL.     For  how  long  ? 

NORA.     For  three  days  —  an'  a  part  o'  four. 

MISS  CARROLL.  And  then  he  got  drunk  and  got  turned  off, 
eh  ?  And  you  gave  him  your  wash  money,  too,  I  suppose, 
as  usual. 

NORA.  No,  no.  Miss  Carroll  dear,  I  didn't  do  that  at  all. 
I  only  give  him  the  half  of  it,  and  niver  any  of  it  would  he 
have  had  but  —  well  —  knowin'  it  was  in  the  house,  it 
was  coaxin'  me  mornin'  and  night  he  was  with  that  wheed- 
lin',  soft  way  o'  him,  and  the  silly  loverin'  talk  till  the 
heart  just  ran  melty  within  me.  (Miss  Carroll  regards  her 
with  her  lips  pursed)  I  knows  it's  an  ould  fool  you're 
thinkin'  me,  but  jest  let  you  be  listenin*  to  his  talk  wanst 
and  see  what  you'd  do,  and  him  tellin'  stories  to  Jimmie 
the  while  so  kind  and  lovely. 

MISS  CARROLL  (stopping  at  entrance  to  bedroom,  basin  in  hand) . 
"Kind  and  lovely"  indeed!  When  he  takes  your  wages 
and  hurts  and  abuses  you,  and  Jimmie  hasn't  a  decent 
place  to  live  in  because  his  father's  a  lazy  —  (She  stops  in 
amazement  on  the  threshold  as  she  sees  Pat  asleep  in  the  room 
within)  Well,  I  never  !  (Comes  back  into  the  room)  Mrs. 
O'Flaherty,  you  must  make  Pat  get  up  and  get  out  of  there 
while  I  take  care  of  Jimmie. 

[Mrs.  O'Flaherty  looks  injured,  but  wipes  her  hands  and  does 
as  she  is  bid.  Miss  Carroll  stands  watching  at  the  door. 


MRS.   PAT  AND  THE  LAW  239 

NORA  (within  bedroom) .  Pat !  Pat !  Wake  up,  will  ye ! 
(Pat  groans)  My,  but  you're  sleepin'  hard  !  Pat !  Miss 
Carroll  says  ye're  to  git  oup  and  git  out  o'  here  while  she 
takes  care  o'  Jimmie.  Come  along,  now !  That's  right, 
Jimmie-boy,  give  him  a  good  thump !  Are  ye  oup  on  yer 
legs  now  ?  Mind  what  yer  doin'.  There  ye  are  ! 

PAT  (entering,  yawning).  Wha'  for  Miss  Carroll  says  git 
oup  and  git  out  ? 

[Miss  Carroll  glares  at  Pat.     Pat,  turning,  catches  her  eye  and 
smiles  sweetly  ere  she  vanishes  into  the  bedroom. 

NORA.     Well,  Pat   O'Flaherty,    I'm   thinkin'   Miss   Carroll 
ain't  so  awful  admirin'  o'  your  ways !     Sometimes  I'm 
thinkin'  she  sees  'em  clearer  nor  your  lovin'  wife  does ! 
[Pat  picks  up  one  of  his  shoes,  sits  down  on  the  sofa  and  looks 
around  for  the  other;  pays  no  heed  to  Nora's  talk. 

PAT.  Where's  me  other  shoe?  (Gets  down  on  hands  and 
knees  and  looks  under  the  sofa)  Shure  I  had  the  two  of  'em 
on  me  feet  yesterday.  (Laughs  gaily)  Maybe  I  wore 
wan  on  'em  out  lookin'  for  that  job  that  I  didn't  git ! 
[Nora  watches  him  a  moment,  then  hands  him  the  shoe  she 
has  picked  up  near  the  stove. 

NORA.     Here's  your  shoe. 

PAT.  Ah!  That's  the  darlin';  thank  ye  kindly.  I'd  be 
losin'  me  head  some  day  if  'twern't  for  you,  Nora  gurrl. 

NORA  (at  tub  while  Pat  slowly  puts  on  shoes).  Oh,  Pat,  ye 
will  thry  and  git  some  worrk  today,  won't  ye,  man  ?  Thry 
hard.  If  they  don't  take  ye  on  at  the  first  place,  go  on 
an*  don't  git  discouraged.  Ye  know  ye're  the  grand  work 
man  whin  ye  thry,  and  ye  must  git  a  stiddy  job  soon.  Ye 
really  must,  Pat.  I'm  shtrong ;  I  don't  mind  the  washin' 
fer  me  own  sake.  I'd  do  anythin'  fer  you  and  the  childer, 
but  whin  Jimmie  frets  at  me  to  play  with  him,  an'  the 
others  come  rushin'  in  from  school  a-wantin'  thur  maw  to 
do  this  and  that  fer  'em,  shure  it  comes  harrd  an'  I  dassn't 
take  me  arrms  from  the  suds  to  'tend  on  'em  and  comfort 
'em  and  cook  'em  thur  meals  nice  like  that  visitin'  house- 
keepin*  lady  told  me  to. 


240  MRS.   PAT  AND  THE  LAW 

[Pat  has  not  been  listening  very  attentively,  but  has  taken  in 
the  drift  of  Nora's  plea. 

PAT  (pulling  himself  together  and  putting  on  hat  and  coat) .  Ah, 
Nora  gurrl,  I'll  be  gettin'  a  good  job  today  shure.  (Sud 
denly  catches  sight  of  her  forehead)  Wha's  that  on  your  head  ? 

NORA  (startled).  Me  head,  is  it?  Miss  Carrol  was  sayin' 
just  now  it  was  "personal  violence  and  breakin'  the  law." 
I  was  thinkin'  afore  that  'twas  only  the  heel  o'  an  ould  boot 
walked  around  daytimes  on  Pat  O'Flaherty,  lookin'  for  a 
job. 

[Pat  regards  her  uneasily,  meditating  speech,  but  appreciates 
he  is  too  befuddled  for  argument,  so  begins  to  whistle  as  he 
gets  himself  out  and  down-stairs,  leaving  the  door  open.  Nora 
goes  to  shut  it,  and  stands  a  moment  reflecting,  looking  after 
Pat,  then  returns  to  the  tub  near  the  bedroom  door,  evidently 
thinking.  Short  pause. 

JIMMIE  (within  bedroom).  Say,  Miss  Carroll,  d'ye  think  I'll 
ever  git  it? 

MISS  CARROLL.     Christmas  is  coming,  Jimmie-boy. 

JIMMIE.     Huh  !     So's  Fourth  o'  July. 

MISS  CARROLL.     We'll  see  what  we  can  do. 

JIMMIE.     The  other  lady  you  told  about  me  brung  me  a  suit, 
but  some  cove  lots  bigger  'n  me  wore  it  all  out  first.     I 
don'  like  it.     Gee !  but  I  wisht  I  had  a  bran'-new  suit 
just  wanst. 
[Nora  makes  a  little  yearning  gesture  towards  the  room. 

MISS  CARROLL.  Now,  Jimmie-boy,  come  along.  It  won't 
hurt  much.  When  you're  all  fixed  up  on  the  lounge  in 
there  I've  got  something  pretty  for  you. 

JIMMIE.     Another  flower  ?     What  kind  is  it  ? 

MISS  CARROLL.     We'll  see.     Now  lean  on  me. 
[They  enter. 

NORA.     That's  the  lad.     Are  ye  all  fixed  up  now?    He's 
gettin'  lots  better,  ain't  he,  Miss  Carroll  ? 
[Jimmie  is  a  pale,  emaciated  child  with  a  wan  little  face  of 
great  sweetness  of  expression.     His  clothes  are  much  too  large 
for  him.     He  holds  up  one  bandaged  leg  and  hobbles  on 


MRS.   PAT  AND  THE  LAW  241 

crutches.  Miss  Carroll  helps  him  on  to  the  lounge,  produces 
from  a  paper  by  her  satchel  two  pink  roses,  holding  them 
up. 

JIMMIE.     Gee  !  ain't  they  pretty  !     Can  I  keep  'ein  both  ? 

MISS  CARROLL.  Both  for  you,  Jimmie-boy,  and  we'll  see 
what  can  be  done  about  the  suit.  Perhaps  we  can  find 
one  somewhere  that's  bran'  new.  (She  gets  a  book  from  the 
shelf)  See  if  you  can  learn  all  the  new  words  on  this  page 
before  I  come  tomorrow,  will  you  ?  That's  a  dear  old 
boy  !  Now,  Mrs.  O'Flaherty,  let's  see  about  that  forehead. 
Sit  down  here. 
[Miss  Carroll  places  a  chair,  front  stage. 

NORA  (washing).  Oh,  what's  the  use  botherin*  about  me 
head  ?  It'll  git  well  of  itself.  It  always  does.  Don't  be 
mindin'  me. 

MISS  CARROLL.  But,  Mrs.  O'Flaherty,  you  really  must  let 
me  see  to  it.  It's  a  bad  cut. 

NORA  (wiping  her  hands) .  Oh  well,  you're  so  good  to  Jimmie 
I'll  have  to  oblige  you.  I  suppose  you  haven't  had  many 
persons  with  holes  in  their  heads  made  by  boots  to  tind 
to?  But  you're  young,  Miss  Carroll  dear,  you're  young 
yit.  (She  seats  herself  with  a  sigh)  I'm  talkin'  silly,  Miss 
Carroll,  but  there's  no  room  for  a  joke  in  me  heart  this 
day.  I've  been  thinkin'  —  about  what  you  said  afore  you 
wint  in  to  Jimmie. 

MISS  CARROLL  (binding  up  the  injured  head) .     Yes  ? 

NORA.  You  were  tellin'  me  to  git  out  a  warrant  'gainst  Pat. 
Do  you  think  it  would  keep  him  from  drinkin'  just  for  a 
bit  till  we  git  caught  up  on  the  rint  and  the  furniture  ?  Do 
you  think  it  would  ? 

MISS  CARROLL.  Mrs.  O'Flaherty,  you  know  it's  a  shame  and 
an  outrage  the  way  Pat's  behaving.  He's  wearing  you 
out.  He'll  do  you  harm  some  day  and  then  what  will 
become  of  Jimmie  ?  He  ought  to  be  taught  a  good  lesson. 

NORA.  Would  they  do  any  hurt  to  him,  do  you  think,  an* 
they  locked  him  up?  Would  they  care  for  him  kindly, 
and  he  maybe  helpless  like  ? 


242  MRS.   PAT  AND  THE  LAW 

MISS  CARROLL.  They  certainly  would  care  for  him.  Now, 
Mrs.  O'Flaherty,  you  go  over  to  the  Maxwell  Street  Sta 
tion  and  show  them  your  forehead,  and  say  you  want  Pat 
"took  up*'  for  a  day  or  so  just  for  a  lesson,  do  you  under 
stand  ? 

NORA.     Yes,  I  understand.     Oh,  it  seems  an  awful  thing  to 
be  doin'  to  your  own  man,  don't  it  ?     After  all  them  things 
I  said  when  we  got  married  ?     No,  no,  I  niver  could  do  it, 
niver ! 
[Goes  back  to  tub. 

MISS  CARROLL.  Well,  then,  tell  Pat  you  may  do  it,  anyway. 
It  will  make  him  respect  you.  But  you're  such  a  softy, 
of  course  you'll  do  nothing.  I  must  go  now.  Mrs. 
Flaherty,  you  must  not  let  Pat  sleep  with  Jimmie.  It  is 
not  good  for  him. 

NORA  (while  Miss  Carroll  is  packing  satchel  and  getting  on  bon 
net  and  coat).  Shure  now,  Miss  Carroll,  you're  down  on 
Pat  for  every  thin'.  He's  a  good,  lovin'  paw  to  Jimmie- 
boy  he  is  —  makin'  him  happy  and  pleasin'  him  like  no 
body  else  can.  Everybody's  kind  to  Jimmie  and  nobody's 
kind  to  Pat  —  and  they're  just  alike  —  two  childer  they 
are  —  both  on  'em  foolish  and  lovin'  and  helpless  like, 
and  I  love  'em  both.  Oh,  I  love  'em  !  If  you'd  hear  'em 
together  an'  you  wid  your  eyes  shut,  it's  hard  set  you'd  be 
to  say  which  was  the  man  and  which  was  the  child.  Some 
times  I  can't  'tind  to  me  washin'  fer  listenin'  to  the  funny 
talk  o'  the  two  o'  them.  Wan  time  they'll  be  settin'  on 
the  high  moon  for  a  throne,  with  the  little  shtars  to  wait 
on  'em  and  shootin'-shtars  to  run  errands ;  another,  they'll 
be  swimmin'  along  through  the  deep  green  sea,  a-passin' 
the  time  o'  day  an'  makin'  little  jokes  to  the  fishes.  Ah, 
ye  ought  to  hear  'em  go  on  ! 

MISS  CARROLL.  Well,  I'm  glad  he  amuses  Jimmie  when  he's 
at  home,  but  he  ought  to  be  at  work,  a  great  strong  man 
like  him !  He  needs  a  good  lesson,  Pat  does.  Good-bye, 
Jimmie-boy.  Be  sure  and  have  the  new  words  learned. 
[She  gives  him  a  little  pat,  and  with  a  wave  of  the  hand  goes 


MRS.   PAT  AND   THE   LAW  243 

out.  Nora  is  unheeding  Jimmie's  call  of  "Maw."  Jimmie 
has  not  listened  to  the  conversation  between  Nora  and  Miss 
Carroll. 

JIMMIE  (raising  himself  and  looking  around) .  Maw !  She 
said  she'd  try  and  git  me  a  bran'-new  suit.  Say,  Maw, 
d'ye  think  she'll  pay  out  her  money  fer  it  ?  I  don't  want 
her  to  do  that.  She  just  gets  wages  same  as  Paw.  She 
told  me  how  it  was.  Say,  Maw,  why  don't  Paw  bring  home 
no  more  wages  ? 

NORA  (coming  to  him,  then  taking  sudden  decision).  Jimmie- 
boy,  Maw's  goin'  out.  (Hastily  gets  out  a  very  queer  bon 
net  and  mantle  while  she  speaks  and  arrays  herself,  putting 
bonnet  on  crooked  to  partially  conceal  bandage)  You  just 
lie  quiet  there  like  a  good  boy,  an'  a  lamb's  tail  couldn't 
whisk  itself  three  times  till  I'll  be  back  again.  I'm  not 
goin'  to  be  a  fool  softy  no  longer,  and  Paw'll  bring  home 
some  more  wages  afther  that  lesson  he's  needin'.  Are  ye 
all  right  now  ?  Ye  won't  be  needin'  anything  ? 
[Pats  him  on  the  head,  then  leans  over  and  kisses  him  fiercely, 
protectingly. 

JIMMIE.     Where  you  goin'  ? 

NORA.  I'm  goin'  to  git  the  law  to  help  us  if  it  can.  (She  goes 
out  and  bangs  the  door) 

[Jimmie,  left  alone,  is  very  bored  and  listless.  He  turns  over 
the  book,  then  lets  it  fall,  twists  himself  wearily.  Suddenly 
his  whole  face  brightens  happily  at  a  step  outside.  Pat's  gay 
whistle  is  heard  coming  up-stair8. 

PAT  (entering).  Hi,  Jimmie-boy !  There's  the  great  lad  for 
ye !  All  shtuffed  full  and  a-runnin'  over  he  is  wid  fine 
learnin'  out  of  books.  Did  ye  ever  see  the  loike  o'  him  ? 
Sittin'  up  dressed  like  folks !  Faith,  it's  the  proud  Pat 
I  am  this  day !  Let's  see  what  great  thing  about  the 
wide  worrld  is  a-hidin'  itself  inside  o'  this  yere. 
[Picks  up  book. 

JIMMIE.     I'm  tired  o'  that.     Tell  me  a  story. 

PAT.  A  shtory,  is  it?  An'  me  to  be  sittin'  here  tellin'  a 
young  lad  shtories  at  the  high  noon  of  the  day,  and  the 


244  MRS.   PAT  AND   THE   LAW 

job  takin'  itself  wings  to  fly  off,  I  might  be  catchin'  and 
holdin'  down  and  I  to  go  afther  it  instid  !  (Sitting  down  by 
Jimmie)  Where's  your  Maw? 

JIMMIE.  I  dimno.  She  said  she  wasn't  going  to  be  no  fool 
softy  no  more,  and  then  she  went  out  quick  like.  What's 
a  fool  softy? 

[Pat  is  very  uneasy.  He  does  not  ansiver,  then  goes  to  the 
door,  looks  out,  comes  back  slowly. 

JIMMIE.     Paw,  me  leg  hurts  awful  today.     Tell  me  a  story. 

PAT.  All  right,  lad,  I'll  tell  ye  a  story.  (Sits  down  near 
sofa)  Did  I  ever  tell  you  about  the  king  of  Ireland  and 
his  siven  sons  ?  No  ?  Once  upon  a  time  there  was  a  great, 
high-up,  noble  king  reigned  over  Ireland  with  a  golden 
crown  on  his  noble  head  an'  a  rulin'  shtick  in  his  hand  — 
Whin  '11  your  Maw  be  back  ? 

JIMMIE.     I  dunno.     Go  on  with  the  story. 

PAT.  Well,  this  grand  king  had  siven  sons,  all  fair  and 
beautiful  they  were  in  armour  of  silver  and  shteel,  an'  on 
their  heads  helmets  covered  with  precious  stones  dug  up 
out  o'  the  earth  that  would  make  your  eyes  blink  for  the 
shinin'.  Bye-and-bye  the  siven  lads  grew  up  strong  and 
mighty,  and  whin  the  king  saw  that  they  were  gettin'  to 
man's  eshtate  he  got  him  together  all  of  the  workmen  out  of 
a  job  there  were  in  the  kingdom  of  Ireland,  and  he  sets 
'em  to  buildin'  siven  great  castles,  each  wan  on  a  different 
high-up  mountain-top,  so  high  that  the  peaks  and  shpires 
of  some  of  them  made  holes  right  through  the  blue  sky, 
do  ye  mind?  Well,  whin  the  castles  were  all  grand  and 
ready  he  called  his  siven  sons  together,  an'  he  stood  'em 
all  up  in  a  glitterin'  row  and  he  said  to  'em,  "Now,  me 
byes,  it's  no  end  of  a  foine  time  ye've  been  havin'  a-sky- 
larkin'  'round  me  kingdom,  but  it's  siven  high  castles  I've 
built  for  ye  now  and  ye'd  better  be  gettin'  yourselves  wives 
and  some  bits  of  furniture  on  the  installment  plan,  maybe, 
and  settlin'  down.  Go  forth  now  through  all  the  world  and 
find  ye  siven  beautiful  princesses,  and  the  wan  of  ye  that 
^its  the  beautifullest  shall  have  the  biggest  castle." 


MRS.   PAT  AND   THE   LAW  245 

[Nora  enters,  grim.  Pat  notes  her  demeanor,  but  concludes 
comment  is  unwise.  She  takes  off  her  bonnet  and  shawl  and 
goes  to  her  tub,  listening  to  Pat. 

JIMMIE.     Go  on,  Paw,  what  did  they  do  thin? 

PAT  (keeping  a  weather  eye  on  Nora) .  What  did  they  do  thin  ? 
Well,  they  looked  and  looked  fer  a  year  and  a  day,  ivery 
one  o'  them  in  a  different  counthry,  but  whiniver  one  of 
the  siven  would  be  findin'  a  princess  who  seemed  hand 
some  and  likely,  whin  he  looked  again  careful  like,  he'd 
be  feared  one  of  his  brothers  would  be  findin'  a  handsomer 
one,  so  he'd  let  her  go  and  move  on. 

JIMMIE.  An'  all  the  beautiful  princesses,  weren't  there  any 
anywhere  no  more? 

PAT  (slapping  his  leg  in  the  joy  of  a  sudden  inspiration) .  Faith, 
Jimmie-boy,  it's  just  comin'  into  me  head  what  was  the 
throuble  !  Shure  the  siven  grand  princes  must  'a'  looked  in 
the  church  window  the  day  I  married  your  Maw,  and 
seein'  her  that  wanst  o'  course  no  princess  could  plaze 
'em  afther.  It  was  green-eyed  envy  filled  their  siven  souls 
that  day,  I'm  thinkin',  for  Pat  O'Flaherty  gettin'  such  a 
Jewell  and  nobody  left  beautiful  enough  for  them  at 
all! 

JIMMIE.     Paw,  quit  yer  jokin' !     Git  along  with  the  story. 

PAT.     Jimmie  darlin',  it's  not  jokin'  I  am.     Your  Maw's  a 
Jewell,  a  rael  beautiful  Jewell,  and  that's  the  truth.     I 
don't  deserve  her,   I  don't. 
[Suddenly  breaks  down  and  sobs. 

JIMMIE.     Aw,  Paw,  don't  do  that  —  don't. 

[He  beings  to  whimper.  Nora  starts  to  comfort  him  when  a 
knock  is  heard.  Pat  shakes  himself  together  and  opens  the 
door,  and  John  Bing,  a  policeman,  enters. 

PAT  (to  Nora) .     A  policeman  ! 

JOHN  BING  (glancing  at  paper  in  his  hand).  Does  Patrick 
O'Flaherty  live  here  ? 

PAT.  Faith,  he  does  that,  an*  what  would  the  majestic  arm 
o'  the  law  be  wantin',  if  ye  please,  intrudin'  in  a  peaceful 
man's  house? 


246  MRS.   PAT  AND  THE  LAW 

JOHN  BING.  I've  a  warrant  here  for  the  arrest  of  Patrick 
O'Flaherty  on  the  ground  of  repeated  violence  towards  his 
wife. 

PAT.     Howly  Saints  !     An'  who  shwore  out  that  warrant  ? 

JOHN  BING  (glancing  at  paper).  Nora  O'Flaherty.  (Looking 
at  Nora)  I  guess  it's  true,  all  right.  Come  along. 

PAT.  Nora  !  You  niver  did  that  to  your  own  man  ?  (Nora 
makes  no  reply  but  a  sniffle)  Nora  ! 

JOHN  BING.     Well,  hurry  up.     Better  come  quietly. 

JIMMIE.  Paw,  what's  the  matter?  What's  he  come  for? 
Make  him  go  'way. 

PAT  (taking  Bing's  coat  lapel  confidentially).  Mr.  Officer  — 
you  see  the  little  lad  there  ?  He's  —  well  —  well,  he'll 
never  walk  no  more.  Perhaps  you  got  childer  yourself? 
Would  you  mind  just  waitin'  a  bit  of  a  minute,  or  maybe 
two,  till  I  finish  a  shtory  I  was  tellin'  him  ?  He'll  let  me 
go  aisier  so. 

JOHN  BING  (looking  at  his  watch).     Five  minutes,  then. 

PAT.  Thank  ye  kindly.  (Returns  to  Jimmie,  giving  his  lounge 
a  little  push  so  Jimmie  will  not  see  John  Bing)  Now,  me 
lad,  where  were  we  in  the  shtory  ? 

JIMMIE.     About  the  beautiful  princesses. 

PAT.  Shure,  I'm  thinkin*  it's  mortal  weary  them  siven 
princes  will  be  lookin'  for  their  beautiful  princesses  all  this 
time,  when  right  here  in  this  room  with  us  two  all  so  happy 
an'  lovin'-like  is  your  Maw,  out  o'  their  reach.  (Jimmie 
suddenly  laughs  out  merrily,  the  first  time  he  has  done  more 
than  smile  wanly)  So  what  do  you  think  they  did  next  ? 

JIMMIE.     I  dunno. 

PAT.     Guess. 

[Here  Nora,  who  has  been  weeping  and  washing  harder  and 
harder,  makes  a  dash  and  throws  open  the  door  to  the  hall, 
grabbing  the  warrant  meanwhile  out  of  the  hand  of  John  Bing. 

NORA.  Mr.  Officer,  you  walk  right  out  o'  here  and  down  them 
shtairs  and  don't  you  be  waitin'  no  more  for  Patrick 
O'Flaherty.  He  ain't  goin'  with  you.  He's  goin*  to  git 
a  job  stiddy  and  shtay  here. 


MRS.   PAT  AND  THE   LAW  247 

JOHN  BING.  You  withdraw  the  charge  ?  I'll  have  to  report 
it  at  the  station. 

NORA.     Charge  nothin' !     You  git  out  o'  here. 

JOHN  BING  (stopping  to  gaze  at  her  a  moment) .  Well,  what  do 
you  think  of  that  ?  The  next  time  one  of  them  suffragist 
ladies  asks  me  what  I  think,  I'll  tell  her  I  think  women 
is  fools,  that's  what  I'll  tell  her.  Yep,  all  fools !  (He 
goes  out) 

[Pat  has  sat   discreetly  silent,  twirling  his  thumbs  rapidly 
and  looking  in  front  of  him. 

JIMMIE.  Paw!  What's  Maw  talkin'  about?  What  Vd 
he  want? 

PAT.  Niver  you  mind,  Jimmie-boy.  It  was  just  payin'  the 
O 'Flaherty  family  a  call  he  was,  nice  and  friendly  like. 
Your  Maw  invited  him,  but  when  she  saw  how  dishturbin' 
his  august  prisence  was  in  our  happy  home,  she  invited 
him  out  again.  Ain't  that  it,  Nora  darlin*  ? 
[He  holds  out  his  hand  to  Nora.  Nora  weakly  approaches^ 
sniffling,  then  falls  on  his  neck. 

NORA.  Oh,  Pat,  Pat !  I  niver  meant  to  do  that  awful  thing 
—  I  niver  did.  I  dunno  what  made  me.  It  was  that 
nurse  a-talkin'  at  me.  She  put  a  spell  on  me,  she  did. 
Oh  Pat,  oh  Pat ! 

PAT   (patting  her).     Niver  mind,  niver  mind.     I  know   ye 
didn't.     It's  all  right.     Niver  mind,  gurrl. 
[A  knock  at  the  door.     Nora  pulls  herself  free  and  opens  the 
door  to  Miss  Carroll. 

PAT  (retreating).  It's  that  dam*  nurse !  She'll  be  the  death 
o'  me  yit. 

MISS  CARROLL  (coming  quickly  forward  towards  Jimmie) .  I 
can't  stop  a  second.  I  just  ran  in  to  tell  Jimmie-boy  I've 
been  telephoning  and  it's  all  fixed.  The  bran'-new  suit's 
going  to  happen  next  Saturday.  It's  my  half -holiday  and 
I'll  come  for  you  in  a  taxi  and  we'll  go  down-town 
and  we'll  buy  it  all  bran*  new  to  fit,  made  just  for 
Jimmie. 

JIMMIE.     Aw  !  'tain't  so.     You're  kiddin'  me  ! 


248  MRS.   PAT  AND   THE   LAW 

MISS  CARROLL.  'Tis  so,  honor  bright !  Cross  my  heart  and 
hope  to  die.  Well,  I  must  run.  (Suddenly  appreciating 
Nora's  aspect)  Why,  Mrs.  O'Flaherty,  what's  the  matter  ? 

NORA.  The  matter  is  you're  a  wicked,  interferin'  woman, 
a-makin'  me  do  them  awful  things  to  me  pore  man  there ! 
Look  at  him,  so  sweet  and  gentle  like  !  Ain't  ye  'shamed 
o'  yourself,  a-plottin'  and  workin'  to  put  apart  them  as 
God  'as  j'ined  together  in  the  howly  estate  of  matrimony  ? 
It's  a  bad,  wicked  woman  I  am  to  be  listenin'  to  your  ter 
rible  talk.  That  there  horrid  big  officer  in  his  shiny  buttons, 
lookin'  so  fat  and  so  satisfied,  waitin'  there  at  the  door  to 
grab  up  me  pore  man  hasn't  a  coat  to  his  back  hardly ! 

MISS  CARROLL.     What  about  the  boot,  Mrs.  O'Flaherty  ? 

NORA.  The  boot,  is  it  ?  Shure  it's  the  careless  woman  I  am, 
happenin*  in  the  way  whin  he  was  takin'  'em  off  and  he 
with  a  bit  of  the  creature  in  him  made  him  excited  like. 

MISS  CARROLL.  All  right,  Mrs.  O'Flaherty,  I'm  sorry.  I 
won't  give  any  more  advice.  It's  against  the  rules.  I 
shouldn't  have  said  anything.  (She  looks  at  Pat,  who  has 
been  regarding  her  quizzically  while  Nora  holds  forth,  and 
now,  catching  her  eye,  has  the  impertinence  to  wink.  Miss 
Carroll  struggles  hard  not  to  respond  to  his  grin,  but  can't 
quite  keep  her  gravity)  You  see,  I  haven't  any  man  of 
my  own,  so  I  suppose  it's  hard  for  me  to  understand 
married  life.  Good-bye  till  tomorrow.  [She  waves  her 
hand  to  Jimmie,  accomplishes  one  severe  look  at  Pat,  and 
vanishes.  Pat  waves  her  off  gaily. 

PAT.     Goo'-bye,   Miss   Carroll,   goo'-bye !     Goo'-bye ! 
[He  gets  his  hat  and  coat,  chuckling  to  himself. 

JIMMIE.  Did  ye  hear  that,  Maw?  A  bran'-new  suit  made 
just  for  me.  Nobody  else  never  wore  it  at  all,  an'  we'll 
go  in  a  taxi  to  buy  it  on  Saturday.  Gee  !  Ain't  it  nice  ? 

PAT  (sidling  up  to  Nora  at  the  tub) .  Nora  darlin',  I'm  thinkin* 
it's  a  foine  job  I'll  be  gettin'  this  day  for  the  askin' ;  the 
heart's  that  big  in  me  for  gratitude,  it'll  shine  right  out 
through  me  two  eyes  and  make  me  hopeful  and  stiddy- 
lookin',  so  that  some  boss'll  think  he's  got  a  grand  man  to 


MRS.   PAT  AND  THE  LAW  249 

work  for  him.  I'd  better  be  startin'  along  how,  I  suppose, 
er  some  other  chap'll  git  there  before  me.  Say,  Nora, 
it's  only  about  twinty  cints  I  do  be  needin'  for  carfare. 

NORA.     Pat,  twinty  cents  is  a  lot.     Where  you  goin'  ? 

PAT.  Well,  maybe  fifteen  cints  would  do  if  I  walk  the  wan 
way  where  there  ain't  no  transfer.  Shure  it's  hard  on  the 
poor  when  the  shtreet-car  companies  git  mad  at  each  other. 
Say,  Nora,  I  know  a  place  where  a  good  job  is  waitin'  for 
Pat  O 'Flaherty,  but  the  great  city  lies  between  us.  Cruel 
long  and  wide  it  is,  and  hard  stones  all  the  way.  It's  too 
weary  and  sad  like  I'd  look  on  arrivin',  au'  I  couldn't  ride 
on  the  cars  to  git  there.  Oh,  come  across  with  the  fifteen 
cents ! 

[Nora  dubiously  gets  down  an  old  china  teapot  from  the  shelf 
and  takes  out  five  cents,  which  she  gives  him  gravely.  She 
then  gets  five  cents  from  another  secret  place. 

PAT  (as  she  is  getting  the  money).  Faith,  there's  money  all 
over  the  place. 

[Nora  then  gets  five  pennies  from  the  depths  of  her  pocket  and 
slowly  counts  out  the  fifteen  cents  into  his  hand. 

PAT  (hissing  her) .  Oh !  That's  the  shweetest  wife  ever 
blessed  a  bad,  bad  spalpeen  of  a  husband.  Good-bye, 
gurrl !  'Bye,  Jimmie-boy.  Be  thinkin'  what  the  siven 
princes  could  do,  they  havin'  seen  your  Maw  through  the 
church  window,  and  I'll  finish  the  shtory  tomorrow. 
[Pat  exits,  whistling,  Nora  watching  him  at  the  door. 

JIMMIE.     Maw,  what's  a  fool  softy  ? 
[Nora  wilts. 

CURTAIN 


LIMA  BEANS 

ALFRED   KREYMBORG 

MR.  ALFRED  KREYMBORG  was  born  in  New  York  City,  De 
cember  10,  1883.  He  is  the  exponent  of  evolution  in  the  form 
of  music,  prose,  free  verse,  and  the  free  verse  play.  He 
was  the  founder  of  The  Glebe  and  edited  it  while  it  was  in 
existence.  During  its  life,  it  was  the  first  publication  to 
issue  an  imagist  anthology  (Ezra  Pound's  collection,  1914). 
He  founded  Others,  a  Magazine  of  the  New  Verse,  July,  1915, 
and  The  Other  Players,  March,  1918,  an  organization  de 
voted  exclusively  to  American  plays  in  poetic  form.  He  is 
the  author  of  "Mushrooms,  a  Book  of  Free  Forms",  "Erna 
Vitez,  a  Novel",  and  "Plays  for  Poem-Mimes",  and  has 
edited  two  anthologies  of  free  verse:  "Others  for  1916", 
and  "Others  for  1917." 

"Lima  Beans"  is  the  most  popular  of  his  plays  and  has 
been  most  frequently  produced.  It  exemplifies  Mr.  Kreym- 
borg's  theory  of  "pantomime  acting  or  dancing  of  folk  or 
automatons  to  an  accompaniment  of  rhythmic  lines,  in  place 
of  music." 

Mr.  Kreymborg's  idea  may  be  compared  with  that  of  Mr. 
Vachel  Lindsay,  who  has  conceived  some  of  his  own  poems  as 
a  chant  in  lieu  of  music  to  accompany  a  dance.  Where,  in 
Mr.  Lindsay's  experiment,  however,  one  person  is  needed  for 
the  dance  and  another  for  the  chant,  in  Mr.  Kreymborg's 
plays  the  dancer  and  the  speaker  are  the  same  person. 
There  is  some  difference  also  in  the  point  of  view :  Mr. 
Lindsay  uses  the  dance  to  aid  interpretation  of  the  poetry ; 
Mr.  Kreymborg  is  equally  interested  in  both. 


LIMA  BEANS 

A   SCHERZO-PLAY 


BY  ALFRED   KREYMBORG 


"Lima  Beans"  was  originally  produced  by  The  Province- 
town  Players,  autumn,  1916. 

Original  Cast 

THE  WIFE         Mina  Loy 

THE  HUSBAND William  Carlos  Williams 

THE  HUCKSTER William  Zorach 

Set  and  costumes  designed  by  William  and  Marguerite 
Zorach. 


COPYRIGHT,    1918,    BY   AWRED    KREYMBORG. 

All  rights  reserved. 

Reprinted  from  "Six  Plays  for  Poem-Mimes"  by  permission  of,  and  by  special 
arrangement  with,  Mr.  Alfred  Kreymborg  and  The  Other  Press. 

Application  for  the  right  of  performing  "Lima  Beans"  must  be  made  to  Mr.  Alfred 
Kreymborg,  The  Other  Press,  17  East  14th  Street,  New  York  City. 


LIMA  BEANS 
A  SCHERZO-PLAY 

SCENE.  The  characters  are  four :  husband,  wife,  the  voice  of  a 
huckster  and  —  the  curtain !  Husband  and  wife  might  be  two 
marionettes.  The  scene  is  a  miniature  dining  room  large  enough 
to  contain  a  small  table,  two  chairs,  a  tiny  sideboard,  an  open 
window,  a  closed  door  leading  to  the  other  rooms,  and  additional 
elbow  space.  Pantomime  is  modestly  indulged  by  husband  and 
wife,  suggesting  an  inoffensive  parody,  unless  the  author  errs, 
of  the  contours  of  certain  ancient  Burmese  dances.  The  im 
pedimenta  of  occasional  rhymes  are  unpremeditated.  If  there 
must  be  a  prelude  of  music,  let  it  be  nothing  more  consequential 
than  one  of  the  innocuous  parlor  rondos  of  Carl  Maria  von 
Weber.  As  a  background  color  scheme,  black  and  white  might 
not  prove  amiss. 

As  the  curtain,  which  is  painted  in  festoons  of  vegetables,  rises 
gravely,  the  wife  is  disclosed  setting  the  table  for  dinner.  Aided 
by  the  sideboard,  she  has  attended  to  her  place,  as  witness  the 
neat  arrangement  of  plate,  cup  and  saucer,  and  knife,  fork  and 
spoons  at  one  side.  Now,  more  consciously,  she  begins  the 
performance  of  the  important  duty  opposite.  This  question  of 
concrete  paraphernalia,  and  the  action  consequent  thereupon, 
might  of  course  be  left  entirely  to  the  imagination  of  the  beholder. 
THE  WIFE  (wistfully  whimsical) .  Put  a  knife  here, 

place  a  fork  there  — 

marriage  is  greater  than  love. 

Give  him  a  large  spoon, 

give  him  a  small  — 


f 
256  LIMA  BEANS 


you're  sure  of  your  man  when  you  dine  him. 

A  cup  for  his  coffee, 

a  saucer  for  spillings, 

a  plate  rimmed  with  roses 

to  hold  his  night's  fillings  — 

roses  for  hearts,  ah, 

but  food  for  the  appetite  ! 

Mammals  are  happiest  home  after  dark  ! 

(The  rite  over,  she  stands  off  in  critical  admiration,  her  arms 

akimbo,  her  head  bobbing  from  side  to  side.     Then,  seriously, 

as  she  eyes  the  husband's  dinner  plate.) 

But  what  shall  I  give  him  to  eat  to-night  ? 

It  mustn't  be  limas, 

we've  always  had  limas  — 

one  more  lima  would  shatter  his  love ! 

[An  answer  comes  through  the  open  window  from  the  dulcet 

insinuatingly  persuasive  horn  of  the  huckster. 

Oh,  ah,  ooh ! 
THE  HUCKSTER  (singing  mysteriously). 

I  got  tomatoes, 

I  got  potatoes, 

I  got  new  cabbages, 

I  got  caulinower, 

I  got  red  beets, 

I  got  onions, 

I  got  lima  beans  — 
THE  WIFE  (who  has  stolen  to  the  window,  fascinated).     Any 

fruit  ? 

THE  HUCKSTER. 

I  got  oranges, 
I  got  pineapples, 
blackberries, 
currants, 
blueberries, 
I  got  bananas, 
I  got  — 
THE  WIFE.     Bring  me  some  string  beans ! 


LIMA  BEANS  257 

THE  HUCKSTER.     Yes,  mam  ! 

[His  head  bobs  in  at  the  window. 

The  Wife  takes  some  coins  from  the  sideboard.     A  paper  bag 

is  flung  into  the  room.     The  wife  catches  it  and  airily  tosses 

the  coins  into  the  street.     Presently,  she  takes  a  bowl  from  the 

sideboard,  sits  down,  peeps  into  the  bag,  dramatically  tears  it 

open,  and  relapses  into  a  gentle  rocking  as  she  strings  the  beans, 

to  this  invocation. 

THE  WIFE.     String  the  crooked  ones, 

string  the  straight  — 

love  needs  a  change  every  meal. 

To-morrow,  come  kidney  beans, 

Wednesday,  come  white  or  black  — 

limas,  return  not  too  soon  ! 

The  string  bean  rules  in  the 

vegetable  kingdom, 

gives  far  more  calories,  sooner  digests  — 

love  through  with  dinner  is  quicker  to  play ! 

Straight  ones,  crooked  ones, 

string  beans  are  blessed  ! 

[Enter  the  husband  briskly.     In  consternation,  the  wife  tries 

to  hide  the  bowl,  but  sets  it  on  the  table  and  hurries  to  greet 

him.     He  spreads  his  hands  and  bows. 
SHE.     Good  evening,  sweet  husband  ! 
HE.     Good  evening,  sweet  wife  ! 
SHE.     You're  back,  I'm  so  happy  - 
HE.     So  am  I  -  -  'twas  a  day  - 
SHE.     'Twas  a  day  ? 
HE.     For  a  hot  sweating  donkey  - 
SHE.     A  donkey  ? 
HE.     A  mule ! 

SHE.     My  poor,  dear,  poor  spouse  — 
HE.     No,  no,  my  good  mouse  — 
SHE.     Rest  your  tired,  weary  arms  — 
HE.     They're  not  tired,  I'm  not  weary  — 

I'd  perspire  tears  and  blood  drops 

just  to  keep  my  mouse  in  cheese. 


258  LIMA  BEANS 


In  a  town  or  in  the  fields, 

on  the  sea  or  in  a  balloon, 

with  a  pickaxe  or  a  fiddle, 

with  one's  back  a  crooked  wish-bone, 

occupation,  labor,  work  — 

work's  a  man's  best  contribution. 
SHE.     Contribution  ? 
HE.     Yes,  to  Hymen  ! 
SHE.     Ah  yes  — 
HE.     But  you  haven't  — 
SHE.     I  haven't  ? 
HE.     You  haven't  — 
SHE.     I  haven't  ? 
HE.     You  have  not  — 
SHE.     Ah  yes,  yes  indeed  ! 

[The  wife  embraces  the  husband  and  kisses  him  daintily  six 

times. 
HE.     Stop,  queer  little  dear ! 

Why  is  a  kiss  ? 
SHE.     I  don't  know. 
HE.     You  don't  ? 
SHE.     No ! 

HE.     Then  why  do  you  do  it  ? 
SHE.     Love ! 
HE.     Love  ? 
SHE.     Yes ! 

HE.     And  why  is  love  ? 
SHE.     I  don't  know. 
HE.     You  don't  ? 
SHE.     No ! 

HE.     And  why  don't  you  know  ? 
SHE.     Because ! 
HE.     Because  ? 
SHE.     Yes ! 
HE.     Come,  queer  little  dear  ! 

[The  husband  embraces  the  wife  and  kisses  her  daintily  six 

times. 


LIMA   BEANS  259 


(solemnly).     And  now! 

SHE  (nervously).     And  now? 

HE.     And  now ! 

SHE.     And  now? 

HE.     And  now  I  am  hungry. 

SHE.     And  now  you  are  hungry  ? 

HE.     Of  course  I  am  hungry. 

SHE.     To  be  sure  you  are  hungry,  but  — 

HE.     But  ? 

SHE.     But ! 

HE.     But? 

[The  wife  tries  to  edge  between  the  husband  and  the  table. 

He  gently  elbows  her  aside.     She  comes  back;  he  elbows  her 

less  gently,     This  pantomime  is  repeated  several  times;  his 

elbowing  is  almost  rough  at  the  last.     The  husband  reaches 

the  table  and  ogles  the  bowl.     His  head  twists  from  the  bold 

to  the  wife,  back  and  forth.     An  ominous  silence. 

String  beans  ? 
SHE.     String  beans ! 
HE.     String  beans  ? 
SHE.     String  beans ! 

[A  still  more  ominous  silence.     The  husband's  head  begins 

fairly  to  bob,  only  to  stop  abruptly  as  he  breaks  forth. 
HE.     I  perspire  tears  and  blood  drops 

in  a  town  or  in  the  fields, 

on  the  sea  or  in  a  balloon, 

with  my  pickaxe  or  my  fiddle, 

just  to  come  home 

footsore,  starving,  doubled  with  appetite 

to  a  meal  of  —  string  beans  ? 

Where  are  my  limas  ? 
SHE.     We  had  - 
HE.     We  had  ? 

SHE.     Lima  beans  yesterday  —  we  had  them  — 
HE.     We  had  them  ? 
SHE.     Day  before  yesterday  — 
HE.     What  of  it  ? 


260  LIMA   BEANS 


SHE.     Last  Friday,  last  Thursday  — 

HE.     I  know  it  — 

SHE.     Last  Wednesday,  last  Tuesday  — 

HE.     What  then,  mam  ? 

SHE.     We  had  them 

all  the  way  since  we  were  married  — 
HE.     Two  weeks  ago  this  very  day  — 
SHE.     I  thought  you'd  have  to  have  a  change  — 
HE.     A  change  — 

SHE.     I  thought  you'd  like  to  have  a  change  — 
HE.     A  change  ? 

You  thought  ? 

I'd  like? 

A  change  ? 

What! 

From  the  godliest  of  vegetables, 

my  kingly  bean, 

that  soft,  soothing, 

succulent,  caressing, 

creamy,  persuasively  serene, 

my  buttery  entity  ? 

You  would  dethrone  it  ? 

You  would  play  renegade  ? 

You'd  raise  an  usurper 

in  the  person  of  this 

elongated,  cadaverous, 

throat-scratching,  greenish 

caterpillar  — 

you'd  honor  a  parochial, 

menial  pleb, 

an  accursed  legume, 

sans  even  the  petty  grandeur 

of  cauliflower, 

radish,  pea, 

onion,  asparagus, 

potato,  tomato  — 

to  the  rank  of  household  god  ? 


LIMA   BEANS  9.QI 


Is  this  your  marriage  ? 
Is  this  your  creed  of  love  ? 
Is  this  your  contribution  ? 
Dear,  dear, 

was  there  some  witch  at  the  altar 
who  linked  your  hand  with  mine  in  troth 
only  to  have  it  broken  in  a  bowl  ? 
Ah,  dear,  dear  — 
SHE.     Dear,  dear ! 

HE.     You  have  listened  to  a  temptress  — 
SHE.     I  have  listened  to  my  love  of  you  — 
HE.     You,  the  pure,  the  angelic  - 
SHE.     Husband,  dear  — 
HE.     Silence ! 
SHE.     Husband ! 
HE.     Silence ! 

(The  wife  collapses  into  her  chair.     The  husband  seizes  the 
bowl  to  this  malediction) 
Worms, 
snakes, 
reptiles, 
caterpillars, 

I  do  not  know  from  whence  ye  came, 
but  I  know  whither  ye  shall  go. 
My  love, 
my  troth, 
my  faith 

shall  deal  with  ye. 
Avaunt, 
vanish, 
begone 

from  this  domicile, 
dedicated, 
consecrated, 
immortalized 
in  the  name  of  Hymen f 
Begone ! 


LIMA   BEANS 


[The  husband  throws  the  bowl  and  beans  out  of  the  window. 
The  customary  crash  of  broken  glass,  off-stage,  is  heard. 
A  smothered  sob  escapes  the  wife.  The  husband  strides 
towards  the  door.  The  wife  raises  her  head. 

SHE.     Husband. 

HE.     Traitress ! 

SHE.     Love,  sweet  husband ! 

HE.     Traitress,  traitress ! 

[The  husband  glares  at  the  wife,  and  slams  the  door  behind 
him.  The  wife  collapses  again.  Her  body  rocks  to  and 
fro.  Silence.  Then,  still  more  mysteriously  than  the  first 
time,  the  horn  and  the  voice  of  the  huckster.  The  wife 
stops  rocking,  raises  her  head  and  gets  up.  A  woe-begone 
expression  vanishes  before  one  of  eagerness,  of  housewifely 
shrewdness,  of  joy.  She  steals  to  the  window. 

THE  HUCKSTER.     I  got  oranges, 
I  got  pineapples, 
I  got  blackbemes, 
I  got  cwrrants, 
I  got  6/weberries, 
I  got  bananas, 
Igot  — 

THE  WIFE.     Any  vegetables  ? 

THE  HUCKSTER.       I  got  tomatoes, 

I  got  potatoes, 

new  cabbages, 

cauliflower, 

red  beets, 

I  got  string  beans, 

Igot  — 

THE  WIFE.     Bring  me  some  lima  beans ! 
THE  HUCKSTER.     I  got  onions, 

Igot- 

THE  WIFE.     Bring  me  some  lima  beans ! 
THE  HUCKSTER.     Yes,  mam ! 

[His  head  appears  again. 

The  performance  of  paper  bag  and  coins  is  repeated.     Ex- 


LIMA   BEANS  263 


citedly,  the  wife  takes  another  bowl  from  the  sideboard.     She  sits 
down,  tears  open  the  bag,  clicks  her  heels,  and  hastily,  recklessly, 
begins  splitting  the  limas.     One  or  two  pop  out  and  bound  along 
the  floor.     The  wife  stops.     Pensively: 
THE  WIFE.     There  you  go, 

hopping  away, 

just  like  bad  sparrows  — 

no,  no,  more  like  him. 

(She  smiles  a  little) 

Hopping  away, 

no,  he's  not  a  sparrow, 

he's  more  like  a 

poor  angry  boy  —  and  so  soon  ! 

(She  lets  the  beans  slip  through  her  fingers) 

Lima  beans,  string  beans, 

kidney  beans,  white  or  black  — 

you're  all  alike  — 

though  not  all  alike  to  him. 

(She  perks  her  head) 

It's  alike  to  me. 

what's  alike  to  him  — 

(She  looks  out  of  the  window) 

though  I'm  sorry  for  you, 

crooked  strings,  straight  strings, 

and  so  glad  for  you, 

creamy  ones,  succulent  — 

what  did  he  say  of  you? 

(She  returns  to  splitting  the  limas  ;  with  crescendo  animation} 

Heigho,  it's  all  one  to  me, 

so  he  loves  what  I  do, 

I'll  do  what  he  loves. 

Angry  boy  ?     No,  a  man 

quite  young  in  the  practice 

of  wedlock  —  and  love  ! 

Come,  limas,  to  work  now  — 

we'll  serve  him,  heart,  appetite, 

whims,  crosspatches  and  all  — 


264  LIMA  BEANS 


though  we  boil  for  it  later ! 

The  dinner  bell  calls  us, 

ding,  dong,  ding,  dell ! 

[The  husband  opens  the  door  and  pokes  in  his  head.     The 
wife  hears  him  and  is  silent.     He  edges  into  the  room  and  then 
stops,  humble,  contrite,  abject.     Almost  in  a  whisper  : 
HE.     Wife ! 

(She  does  not  heed  him.     He,  louder) 

Sweet  wife  ! 

(She  does  not  answer.     He,  still  louder) 

Beloved, 

dear,  dearest  wife ! 

(She  does  not  answer.     He  approaches  carefully,  almost  with 

reverence,  watches  her,  takes  the  other  chair  and  cautiously 

sets  it  down  next  to  hers) 

Wife! 

SHE.     Yes  ? 
HE.     Will  you  — 

I  want  to  — 

won't  you  — 

may  I  sit  next  to  you  ? 
SHE.     Yes. 
HE.     I  want  to  — 

will  you  — 

won't  you  _A 

forgive  me  —  I'll 

eat  all  the  beans  in  the  world  ! 

[The  wife  looks  up  at  the  husband  roguishly.  He  drops  down 
beside  her  with  the  evident  intention  of  putting  his  arm 
about  her,  only  to  jump  up  as,  inadvertently,  he  has  looked 
into  the  bowl.  He  rubs  his  eyes,  sits  down  slowly,  looks 
again,  only  to  jump  up  again.  The  third  time  he  sits  down 
with  extreme  caution,  like  a  zoologist  who  has  come  upon  a 
new  specimen  of  insect.  The  wife  seems  oblivious  of  his 
emotion.  He  rises,  looks  from  one  side  of  her,  then  the 
other,  warily.  At  last,  rapturously. 
Lima  beans  ? 


LIMA   BEANS  265 


[She  looks  up  tenderly  and  invitingly,  indicating  his  chair. 
SHE.     Lima  beans ! 

[He  sits  down  beside  her.     With  greater  awe  and  emphasis. 
HE.     Lima  beans  ? 
SHE.     Lima  beans ! 

[A  moment  of  elfin  silence. 
HE.     Sweet  wife ! 
SHE.     Sweet  husband ! 
HE.     Where  - 

whence  — 

how  did  it  — 

how  did  it  happen? 
SHE.     I  don't  know. 
HE.     You  do  — 

you  do  know  — 
SHE.     I  don't ! 
HE.     Tiny  miracle, 

you  do  — 

you're  a  woman, 

you're  a  wife, 

you're  an  imp  — 

you  do  know ! 
SHE.     Well  - 
HE.     Well? 
SHE.     Er  — 

HE.       Eh? 

SHE.     Somebody  — 
HE.     Yes,  yes  ? 
SHE.     Somebody  — 

sent  them  — 
HE.     Sent  them ! 
SHE.     Brought  them ! 
HE.     Brought  them  ? 
SHE.     Yes ! 
HE.     Who  ? 
SHE.     Somebody ! 
HE.     Somebody  who  ? 


266  LIMA  BEANS 


SHE.     I  can't  tell  — 

HE.     You  can. 

SHE.     I  —  won't  tell  — 

HE.     You  will  — 

SHE.     I  won't  — 

HE.     You  will  — 

SHE.     Well ! 

HE.     Well? 

SHE.     You  ought  to  know ! 

HE.     I  ought  to  ? 

SHE.     You  ought  to  — 

HE.     But  I  don't  - 

SHE.     Yes,  you  do  ! 

HE.     I  do  not  — 

SHE.     You  do ! 

[  The  husband  eyes  the  wife  thoughtfully.  She  aids  him  with  a 
gently  mischievous  smile.  He  smiles  back  in  understanding. 

HE.     I  know ! 

SHE.     You  do  not  — 

HE.     Yes,  I  do  ! 

SHE.     Are  you  sure? 

HE.     Sure  enough  — 

SHE.     Who  was  it? 

HE.     I  won't  tell  — 

SHE.     You  will ! 

[He  points  at  the  audience  with  warning,  goes  to  the  keyhole 
and  listens,  draws  the  window-shade  and  returns.  She 
nods  quickly  and  puts  her  head  closer  to  his,  her  wide-open 
eyes  on  the  audience.  He  puts  his  head  to  hers,  his  wide-open 
eyes  on  the  audience,  then  turns  quickly  and  whispers  some 
thing  in  her  ear.  She  nods  with  secret,  uproarious  delight. 
Yes! 

HE.     Yes? 

SHE.     Yes ! 

[They  embrace  and  click  their  heels  with  unrestrained  en 
thusiasm.  The  wife  holds  out  the  bowl  to  the  husband  with 
mock  solemnity.  He  grasps  it  and  together  they  raise  it 


LIMA  BEANS  267 


above  their  heads,  lower  it  to  their  knees,  and  then  shell  the 
beans  with  one  accord.  They  kiss  each  other  daintily  six 
times.  The  curtain  begins  to  quiver.  As  before,  but  accele 
rando. 

HE.     Stop,  queer  little  dear  ! 
Why  is  a  kiss  ? 

SHE.     I  don't  know. 

HE.     You  don't? 

SHE.     No ! 

HE.     Then  why  do  you  do  it  ? 

SHE.     Love ! 

HE.     Love ! 

SHE.     Yes ! 

HE.     And  why  is  — 

[They  are  interrupted.  The  curtain  comes  capering  down! 
The  last  we  behold  of  the  happy  pair  is  their  frantic  signal 
ing  for  the  curtain  to  wait  till  they  have  finished.  But 
curtains  cannot  see  —  or  understand  ? 


THE    WONDER   HAT 

BEN  HECHT 

Perhaps  the  best  conception  of  Mr.  Ben  Hecht  can  be 
secured  from  a  short  autobiography.  During  the  war  Mr. 
Hecht  was  the  official  Berlin  correspondent  of  the  Chicago 
Daily  News.  As  he  was  dashing  out  on  his  way  to  the  boat, 
Mr.  Henry  Blackman  Sell,  book  editor  of  the  Chicago  Daily 
News,  reminded  him  that  the  News  had  no  facts  concerning 
his  life.  Mr.  Hecht  sat  down  immediately  and  produced 
the  following : 

"I  was  born  in  New  York  City  in  1893  and  travelled  ex 
tensively  until  the  age  of  eight,  when  I  located  in  Racine, 
Wisconsin.  At  seventeen,  I  was  graduated  from  the  Racine 
High  School  and  arrived  in  Chicago  a  month  thereafter. 
My  original  intention  was  to  join  the  Thomas  Orchestra  as 
violinist.  I  secured  a  job  on  the  staff  of  the  Chicago  Journal 
instead.  I  worked  there  for  four  years.  I  then  joined  the 
Daily  News  staff  and  have  been  more  or  less  employed  thereon 
since. 

"I  have,  during  eight  and  a  half  years  of  reporting,  covered 
221  fires,  9  hangings,  81  murder  mysteries,  interviewed  651 
opera  stars,  113  foreign  diplomats,  99  domestic  politicians, 
1657  girls  who  have  gone  wrong ;  reported  56  murder  trials, 
901  divorce  trials,  and  59  trials  on  grand  larceny  charges. 

"I  have  had  45  short  stories  published  in  Munsey's,  Smart 
Set,  Black  Cat,  All  Story,  Parisienne,  The  Little  Review,  and 
have  had  poetry  printed  in  Poetry  —  A  Magazine  of  Verse. 

"  I  admire  the  domestic  geranium.  Lavender  is  my  favorite 
color.  I  have  no  money  in  the  bank.  I  am  married  and 
the  father  of  one  child,  a  girl. 


270  THE  WONDER  HAT 

"  My  favorite  composers  are  Beethoven  and  Debussy.  My 
favorite  authors,  Huysmans  and  Dostoyevsky.  My  favorite 
artist,  Stanislaus  Zulkalski. 

"I  have  read  the  Daily  News  regularly  for  six  years." 
Mr.  Ben  Hecht  is  a  collaborator  with  Kenneth  Sawyer 
Goodman  in  "The  Wonder  Hat",  "An  Idyl  of  the  Shops", 
and  "The  Hero  of  Santa  Maria",  and  with  Maxwell  Boden- 
heim  in  "Mrs.  Margaret  Calhoun."  He  is  sole  author  of 
a  play  entitled  "Dregs." 

KENNETH  SAWYER  GOODMAN 

LIEUTENANT  KENNETH  SAWYER  GOODMAN  was  born  in 
1883,  and  died  very  suddenly  of  pneumonia  on  November 
29, 1918.  At  the  time  of  his  death  he  was  chief  aid  to  Captain 
Moffett  at  the  Great  Lakes  Naval  Station. 

In  cooperating  with  B.  Iden  Payne  during  the  Chicago 
Theatre  Society's  season  at  the  Fine  Arts  Theatre  in  1913, 
he  helped  to  give  the  city  one  of  its  most  interesting  repertory 
engagements.  He  was  an  officer  of  the  Chicago  Theatre 
Society  during  its  three  years  of  life,  and  contributed  to  the 
repertory  of  its  Drama  Players  in  1911  a  translation  of  Her- 
vieu's  "La  Course  en  Flambeau",  which  was  successfully 
acted  at  the  Lyric  Theatre  (now  the  Great  Northern)  under 
the  title  of  "The  Passing  of  the  Torch."  By  the  study  of 
play  writing  (in  which  he  showed  marked  talent),  of  stage 
decoration,  and  of  theatre  management,  he  was  preparing 
himself  for  important  work  in  dramatic  art. 

He  is  the  author  of:  "Quick  Curtains",  which  contains 
"Dust  of  the  Road",  "The  Game  of  Chess",  "Barbara", 
"Ephraim  and  the  Winged  Bear",  "Back  of  the  Yards", 
"Dancing  Dolls",  and  "A  Man  Can  Only  Do  His  Best"; 
"An  Idyl  of  the  Shops  ",  "The  Hero  of  Santa  Maria",  and 
"The  Wonder  Hat"  (in  collaboration  with  Ben  Hecht); 
"Holbein  in  Blackfriars ",  "Ryland",  "  Rainald  and  the 
Red  Wolf",  and  "Masques  of  East  and  West"  (in  collabora 
tion  with  Thomas  Wood  Stevens). 


THE  WONDER  HAT  271 

"Dust  of  the  Road"  was  first  acted  by  the  Wisconsin 
Dramatic  Society  in  1911.  "The  Game  of  Chess"  was  first 
acted  in  the  Fine  Arts  Theatre,  Chicago,  under  the  auspices 
of  the  Chicago  Theatre  Society,  1911,  with  Walter  Hampden 
and  Whitford  Kane  in  the  leading  r6les.  "Barbara"  was 
first  acted  in  the  Fine  Arts  Theatre,  Chicago,  under  the 
auspices  of  the  Chicago  Theatre  Society,  1911,  with  Mona 
Limerick,  Dallas  Anderson,  and  B.  Iden  Payne  in  the  cast. 
"Back  of  the  Yards"  was  acted  by  the  Players*  Workshop  of 
Chicago  in  1917.  "A  Man  Can  Only  Do  His  Best"  was 
first  acted  at  the  Gaiety  Theatre,  Manchester,  England,  under 
the  direction  of  B.  Iden  Payne,  1914. 


THE  WONDER  HAT 

A  HARLEQUINADE 


BY  BEN  HECHT  AND  KENNETH  SAWYER 
GOODMAN 


"The  Wonder  Hat"  was  originally  produced  at  the  Arts 
and  Crafts  Theatre,  Detroit,  Michigan,  in  1916. 

Original  Cast 

HARLEQUIN Sam  Hume 

PIERROT Charles  E.  Hilton 

PUNCHINELLO        A.  L.  Weeks 

COLUMBINE Lento  Fulwell 

MARGOT Betty  Brooks 


All  rights  reserved. 

Printed  by  permission  of,  and  special  arrangement  with,  the  Stage  Guild,  Chicago. 
Application  for  the  right  of  performing  "The  Wonder  Hat"  must  be  made  to  the 
Stage  Guild,  Railway  Exchange  Building,  Chicago. 


THE  WONDER  HAT 

SCENE.  The  scene  is  a  park  by  moonlight.  The  stage  setting 
is  shallow.  At  the  back  center  is  a  formal  fountain,  backed  by 
a  short  wall  about  seven  feet  high  and  having  urns  at  its  two  ends. 
At  each  side  of  the  fountain  are  low  groups  of  shrubbery.  There 
is  a  clear  space  between  the  fountain  and  back  drop  so  that  the 
characters  may  pass  round  the  shrubbery  and  the  fountain. 
The  back  drop  represents  a  night  sky  with  an  abnormally  large 
yellow  moon.  A  path  crosses  the  stage  parallel  to  the  footlights. 
As  the  curtain  rises,  Harlequin  and  Pierrot  saunter  in  from 
the  left,  arm  in  arm.  They  both  have  on  long  cloaks  and  are 
swinging  light  canes  with  an  air  of  elegant  ennui.  They  pause, 
in  the  center  of  the  stage. 

HARLEQUIN  (indicating  with  a  wave  of  his  cane}.  Dear  fellow, 
this  is  a  circular  path.  It  runs  quite  around  the  outer 
edge  of  the  park,  a  matter  of  a  half  mile  or  thereabouts.  It 
delights  me.  I  always  spend  my  evenings  here.  One 
can  walk  for  hours  with  the  absolute  certainty  of  never 
getting  anywhere. 

PIERROT  (removing  his  eyeglass}.  Dear  chap,  in  these  days 
of  suburban  progress,  I  had  not  supposed  such  a  place 
possible. 

HARLEQUIN.  There  is  another  point  in  its  favor.  As  you 
may  have  noticed,  all  the  promenaders  move  continuously 
in  the  same  direction.  It  is  therefore  only  necessary  to 
maintain  an  even  pace  in  order  to  avoid  making  acquaint 
ances. 

PIERROT.     One  might  retrace  one's  steps. 
HARLEQUIN.     It  has  been  tried  by  certain  elderly  roues  and 
ladies  from  the  opera,  but  always  with  disastrous  results. 
Our  best  people  no  longer  attempt  it. 


276  THE  WONDER  HAT 

PIERROT  (with  a  slight  yawn).     How  delightfully  like  life. 

HARLEQUIN.  In  certain  ways,  yes.  Those  of  a  genial  dis 
position  may  lag  and  allow  others  to  catch  up.  The  more 
adventurous  may  press  on  and  possibly  overtake  somebody. 
But  unlike  life,  one  is  never  troubled  by  one's  creditors. 

PIERROT.  How  thoroughly  charming.  (Takes  pose  at  foun 
tain)  Tell  me,  does  Columbine  ever  come  here  ? 

HARLEQUIN  (becoming  serious  ;  takes  pose  other  side  of  fountain). 
That  is  the  one  drawback.  She  comes  here  very  often. 

PIERROT  (snappishly).  Humph!  That  is  really  annoying, 
deucedly,  devilishly,  foolishly  annoying ! 

HARLEQUIN.     You're  very  emphatic. 

PIERROT  (still  more  snappishly).  I  have  never  liked  that 
woman,  in  spite  of  what  the  poets  say  about  us. 

HARLEQUIN.  By  keeping  a  sharp  lookout,  I  have  thus  far 
managed  to  avoid  her  myself  and  yet  keep  her  often  in 
sight  without  her  laying  eyes  on  me. 

PIERROT  (pleased) .  I  see  that  we  are  both  confirmed  bachelors, 
without  a  grain  of  sentiment  in  us.  We  agree  perfectly. 

HARLEQUIN.  On  the  contrary,  we  don't  agree  at  all.  Because 
you  dislike  Columbine,  you're  too  confoundedly  polite  to 
others.  You  make  cynical  love  to  all  sorts  of  women  and 
nobody  likes  you  for  it.  On  the  other  hand,  I  am  im 
mensely  partial  to  the  same  young  lady  and  detest  all  the 
rest  of  the  sex.  For  that  reason  I  am  simply  overwhelmed 
with  dinner  invitations. 

PIERROT.  If  you're  in  love  with  Columbine,  why  don't  you 
catch  up  with  her  some  evening  and  have  it  out  with  her  ? 

HARLEQUIN  (preening  himself) .  Gross  materialist !  For  the 
sake  of  a  few  honeyed  kisses  would  you  have  me  risk  the 
crumbling  of  an  ideal?  She  would  certainly  fall  in  love 
with  me  like  all  the  others. 

PIERROT  (with  equal  self-satisfaction).  At  least  I  should  be 
spared  the  possibility  of  her  falling  in  love  with  me. 

HARLEQUIN.  How  selfish  of  you  !  (Moves  from  the  fountain) 
But  come,  if  you  are  quite  rested,  let  us  continue  our 
walk. 


THE   WONDER  HAT  277 

PIERROT  (moves  from  fountain) .  To  be  perfectly  frank,  dear 
chap,  I  find  your  conversation  has  made  me  extremely 
sleepy. 

HARLEQUIN  (haughtily).  There  is  a  beautiful  stone  bench 
just  beyond  that  clump  of  lilacs. 

PIERROT.     Thanks.     When  we  reach  it,  I  shall  sit  down. 

HARLEQUIN.  By  all  means,  dear  fellow.  I  can  then  resume 
my  stroll  without  the  encumbrance  of  your  society. 
[They  saunter  off,  arm  in  arm.  Punchinello  enters,  dressed 
in  a  long,  ragged,  green  coat,  carrying  a  large  sack  and  a  little 
bell.  He  wears  long  whiskers  and  a  pair  of  bone-rimmed 
spectacles.  He  advances,  tapping  before  him  with  a  staff  and 
ringing  his  little  bell. 

PUNCHINELLO  (in  a  whining  singsong).  New  loves  for  old! 
New  loves  for  old  !  New  loves  for  old  !  I  will  buy  broken 
ambitions,  wasted  lives,  cork  legs,  rejected  poems,  unfin 
ished  plays,  bottles,  bootjacks,  and  worn-out  religions. 
(Drops  pack)  Oyez  !  Oyez  !  Oyez  !  New  loves  for  old  !  New 
loves  for  old  !  (He  wags  his  head,  listening)  Nobody  here. 
Damn  it  all,  I've  walked  three  times  round  this  accursed 
park  with  never  so  much  as  a  squirrel  to  nibble  at  my  heels. 
I've  seen  moon-faced  boys  asleep  on  stone  benches,  stone 
tritons  blowing  water  into  the  air,  and  a  rabble  of  sick 
looking  poets  and  silly  looking  girls,  all  walking  in  the  same 
direction.  But  not  a  bona  fide  customer.  I'll  sit  down. 
Yes,  yes,  I'll  sit  dow",  curse  them,  and  ease  this  infernal 
crick  in  my  back. 

[He  unfolds  a  little  camp  stool,  which  he  carries  slung  by  a 
strap,  and  sits  down.  Columbine  and  Margot  enter  from 
the  left  and  advance  timidly  to  the  center  of  the  stage  without 
noticing  Punchinello. 

COLUMBINE.  I'm  sure,  Margot,  that  I  saw  him  here  only  a 
minute  ago  talking  to  that  silly  clown  in  the  yellow  suit. 

MARGOT.  Well,  anyway,  whether  it  was  him  or  an  halluci 
nation  he's  gone  now. 

COLUMBINE.  Oh,  dear !  I  thought  he  might  have  stopped 
to  let  me  catch  up  with  him. 


278  THE  WONDER  HAT 

M ARGOT.  Do  you  want  my  honest  opinion,  Mistress  Colum 
bine? 

COLUMBINE  (stamping  her  foot).  How  can  an  opinion  be 
anything  but  honest  ?  An  opinion  is  naturally  and  auto 
matically  honest. 

MARGOT.  Mine  ain't,  m'am.  I  always  formulates  my  opin 
ions  to  conform. 

COLUMBINE.  I  don't  want  them.  I'm  miserable.  I'm 
wretched. 

MARGOT  (severely).  Then  I  won't  give  them  to  you.  But  if 
you'd  act  more  like  a  lady  and  stop  trapesing  around  in 
the  damp  of  the  night  trying  to  scrape  acquaintance  with 
—  with  this  Harlequin  who,  God  knows,  may  have  six  or 
seven  wives  already  — 

COLUMBINE.     I'm  not  trapesing  after  him! 

PUNCHINELLO  (in  his  singsong  voice} .  New  loves  for  old !  New 
loves  for  old ! 

COLUMBINE  (frightened) .     Oh,  how  you  startled  me  ! 

MARGOT  (her  hand  on  her  heart) .  Lord  love  us  !  I  near  swal 
lowed  my  tongue  with  the  jump  he  gave  me. 

PUNCHINELLO  (rubbing  his  hands) .  Bargains !  Cheap, 
wonderful  bargains !  What  will  the  young  lady  buy  ? 
Something  for  her  parlor  ?  Something  for  her  bedroom  ? 
Something  for  herself?  Wall  paper,  eggbeaters,  canary 
birds,  salt  shakers,  oriental  rugs,  corset  covers,  diamonds, 
water  bags,  chums,  potato  peelers,  hats,  shoes,  gas  fixtures, 
new,  old  —  bargains,  lady,  bargains. 

COLUMBINE.     No,  no,  no !     I  don't  want  to  buy  anything. 

PUNCHINELLO  (kneeling  and  spreading  out  his  wares) .  I  have 
cures  to  sell,  and  charms. 

MARGOT.  Can't  you  see  she  doesn't  want  any  of  your  patent 
medicines  ? 

COLUMBINE  (fascinated  in  spite  of  herself) .  What  —  what 
charms  have  you  ? 

PUNCHINELLO.  Ho,  ho !  I  have  a  charm  to  ward  off  evil 
spirits. 

MARGOT  (in  disgust).     Get  along  with  you  ! 


THE  WONDER  HAT  279 

PUNCHINELLO.     Against    nightmares,    then;    against    mice, 

toothaches,  bunions,  burglars,  and  broken  legs. 
COLUMBINE.     I  don't  want  them,  any  of  them. 
PUNCHINELLO  (wagging  his  head) .     Ho,  ho  !     Ha,  ha  !  Then 

you're  in  love.     You  want  a  love  charm. 
COLUMBINE  (stamping  her  foot) .     You're  impudent !     I  tell 

you  I'm  not  in  love. 
MARGOT  (beginning  to  be  interested).    What  makes  you  pipe 

her  off  as  being  in  love  ? 
PUNCHINELLO.     A  lady  who  isn't  interested  in  mice,  bunions, 

or   burglars    must    be    in   love.      There's    no   two   ways 

about  it. 

MARGOT.     What  about  the  broken  legs  and  toothaches  ? 
PUNCHINELLO  (spreading  his  hands).     I  just  put  that  in  for 

good  measure. 
COLUMBINE.     Enough  !     I  won't  listen  to  you.     I'm  —  not  in 

love. 

PUNCHINELLO.     I  can  remedy  that  with  a  charm. 
COLUMBINE  (almost  in  tears).     I  don't  want  your  charms.     I 

don't  want  to  -be  in  love.     I  hate  him !     I  hate  him !     I 

hate  him ! 
PUNCHINELLO.     Yes,  yes,  pretty  lady.     I  know  that  sort  of 

talk  very  well.     But  I  have  also  a  charm  to  attract  love. 
COLUMBINE  (brightening  immediately) .     You  have  a  charm  to 

attract  love  ? 
PUNCHINELLO.     It  will  bring  all  men  to  you ;   little  men,  big 

men,  pretty  men,  noble  men,  fat  men  - 
COLUMBINE  (clasping  her  hands).     I  want  only  one  man  — 

only  Harlequin. 

MARGOT  (interrupting) .     If  you  want  my  opinion,  m'am  - 
COLUMBINE.     But  I  don't. 

MARGOT.     I'd  leave  this  fellow's  stuff  alone,  if  I  was  you. 
COLUMBINE.     But  I'm  not  you  and  I  want  the  charm. 
PUNCHINELLO  (searching  through  his  wares).     It  will  bring 

Harlequin  to  you  with  the  rest. 
COLUMBINE  (on  tiptoe  with  eagerness).     Oh,  quick!     Give  it 

to  me. 


280  THE  WONDER  HAT 

PUNCHINELLO  (taking  an  old  slipper  from  his  pocket) .  Ho,  ho ! 
Here  it  is.  An  old  slipper !  Each  stitch  of  it  more  ef 
fective  than  Sappho's  complete  works.  Each  thread  more 
potent  than  the  burning  caresses  of  Dido.  They  say 
Cinderella  wore  a  crystal  slipper.  It's  a  lie.  This  —  this 
is  what  she  wore.  Ah,  ha  !  Look  at  it ! 

COLUMBINE  (taken  aback).     Do  I  have  to  wear  that. 

M ARGOT  (scornfully) .  Land's  sake,  it's  all  run  down  at  the  heel. 

PUNCHINELLO.  That's  because  it  has  been  worn  so  often. 
Semiramis  of  Babylon  Lais  of  Corinth,  and  Thais  of 
Alexandria  all  wore  this  boot. 

MARGOT  (with  a  sniff).  Them  names  don't  sound  like  re 
spectable  ladies  to  my  way  of  thinking. 

COLUMBINE  (dubiously).  It  looks  very  old.  Are  you  sure 
it  has  been  fumigated  ? 

PUNCHINELLO.  It's  no  older  than  the  light  it  will  kindle  in  a 
thousand  eyes  when  you  wear  it.  But  in  its  antiquity  lies 
its  chief  charm.  Cleopatra  of  Egypt  abetted  the  lures  of 
her  person  with  this  same  ragged  boot.  Mary  of  Scotland 
and  a  hundred  other  beauties  of  history  have  inspired  the 
enraptured  supplications  of  their  adorers  with  no  more 
tangible  asset  then  this  homely  boot.  Put  it  on,  pretty 
lady,  and  all  the  men  will  flock  to  your  feet,  especially 
to  the  foot  that  wears  the  slipper. 
[He  hands  Columbine  the  slipper. 

COLUMBINE.     Ooh,  ooh  !     How  wonderful ! 

MARGOT  (with  a  superior  air) .  Take  my  word,  miss,  it'll  be 
a  nuisance  to  you. 

COLUMBINE.  I  don't  care.  I'm  going  to  teach  Harlequin  a 
lesson  he  won't  forget  in  a  hurry. 

[She  takes  off  her  own  shoe,  hopping  on  one  foot  and  holding 
Margot's  arm.     She  then  puts  on  the  magic  slipper. 

MARGOT.     Mind,  I  warned  you. 

COLUMBINE  (stamping  her  foot  down) .  There !  It  doesn't 
look  so  badly  once  I  get  it  on.  It  fits  perfectly. 

PUNCHINELLO  (groveling  on  his  knees).  Oh,  most  wonderful 
lady  !  Oh,  most  beautiful,  most  gracious,  most  divine  lady  ! 


THE  WONDER  HAT  281 

MARGOT  (amazed  at  Punchinello1  s  sudden  fervor) .     Lord  love 

us  !     What's  got  into  the  old  bag  of  bones  ? 
PUNCHINELLO  (to  Columbine).     You  have  melted  the  lump  of 

ice  in  my  old  breast.     I  am  young  again.     I  can  hear  the 

birds  singing  and  sweet  waters  falling. 
MARGOT  (to  Punchinello) .     Get  up  this  minute,  before  I  burst 

a  lung  bawling  for  help. 
COLUMBINE  (dancing  up  and  down  with  delight).     Oh,  oh,  oh  ! 

Now  I  know  it  works.     Don't  you  understand,  Margot? 

It's  the  slipper,  the  magic  slipper. 

PUNCHINELLO.     I  love  you  !     I  love  you  !     I  love  you  ! 
MARGOT.     Stop  it,  I  tell  you. 
COLUMBINE  (gently).     That's  very  nice  in  you,  of  course,  but 

get  up,  please,  and  tell  me  how  much  I  owe  you. 
MARGOT.     We  can't  stand  here  all  night. 
PUNCHINELLO  (still  on  his  knees)      Oh,  oh,  oh  ! 
COLUMBINE  (stamping  her  foot).     Don't  you  hear  me  ?     I  say 

how  much  do  I  owe  you  for  the  magic  slipper  ? 
PUNCHINELLO    (still  groveling) .     Nothing !     Nothing !     You 

owe  me  nothing  at  all.     I  will  give  you  everything  in  my 

sack,  all  my  bargains,  all  my  spells,  all  my  charms. 
MARGOT.   She  wouldn't  touch  them  with  the  tip  of  a  barge  pole. 
COLUMBINE  (to  Margot).     I  really  think  I  ought  to  pay  him. 
MARGOT.     If  he  won't  take  anything  he  won't.     That's  all 

there  is  to  it. 

PUNCHINELLO.     Speak  to  me.     My  heart  is  bursting. 
MARGOT.     Let  it  burst  then.     Come,  m'am.     It's  my  advice 

to  get  away  from  here  before  he  throws  a  fit  and  the  police 

come  for  him. 
COLUMBINE.     Yes,  yes.     Let's  run. 

[Columbine  takes  Margot  by  the  hand  and  they  run  of  right, 

laughing. 
PUNCHINELLO  (attempting  to  rise).     Wait,  wait!     You  must 

listen  to  me.     I  love  you.     I  —  I  —  Oh,  this  stitch  in  my 

side! 

[As  the  girls'  voices  die  away  he  struggles  to  his  feet  and  rubs 

his  head  in  a  dazed  sort  of  way. 


282  THE  WONDER  HAT 

Gone  !  What  have  I  done  ?  By  the  seven  witches  of  Be 
elzebub,  by  the  long  fanged  mother  of  the  great  green  spider, 
I  have  given  my  magic  slipper  away  for  nothing.  (He 
shakes  his  staff)  I've  been  tricked,  cheated.  Curses  on 
her  golden  head.  May  she  have  nightmares  and  tooth 
ache  !  May  —  Old  fool !  A  blight  on  my  whiskers ! 
I've  given  my  darling  slipper  away  for  nothing. 
(He  sits  down  again  on  his  camp  stool  and  rocks  to  and  /ro, 
muttering.  Harlequin,  having  completed  his  circle  of  the 
park,  enters  from  the  left.  He  is  smoking  a  cigarette  and 
strolls  along,  wearing  a  gloomy  and  troubled  expression. 
Punchinello  sees  him  and  resumes  his  whining  chant) 
New  loves  for  old.  New  loves  for  old.  Bargains  in  cast- 
off  sweethearts,  old  coats,  umbrellas,  glove  buttoners,  and 
household  pets.  Bargains  sir.  Cheap,  wonderful  bar 
gains  ! 

(Harlequin  passes  and  regards  Punchinello  with  absolute 
indifference) 

I  have  pipes,  swords,  hosiery,  snuff-boxes,  underwear, 
wines,  trinkets  for  beautiful  ladies,  furniture,  spyglasses, 
motor  cars,  and  bottle  openers. 

HARLEQUIN  (impatiently).     I  want  none  of  your  bargains. 

PUNCHINELLO.  I  have  magic  charms,  sir.  Spells  and 
charms. 

HARLEQUIN.  Ah,  more  like  it!  You  have  charms,  eh? 
What  kind  of  charms  ? 

PUNCHINELLO.  I  have  charms  against  bunions,  burglars, 
broken  legs,  nightmares,  stomach-aches,  and  hangnails. 

HARLEQUIN.     Ordinary  trash.     I  don't  want  them. 

PUNCHINELLO  (looking  furtively  about) .     I  have  a  love  charm. 

HARLEQUIN  (in  alarm)      God  forbid  ! 

PUNCHINELLO  (rubbing  his  hands).     Ho,  ho!     He,  he! 

HARLEQUIN.  Have  you,  by  any  chance,  a  charm  against 
love  ?  Aye,  more,  have  you  some  efficacious  armour  against 
womankind  in  general  ? 

PUNCHINELLO.  Ho,  ho !  A  man  after  my  own  Aeart.  A 
cautious  man.  A  sensible  man. 


THE  WONDER  HAT  283 

HARLEQUIN  (loftily).  Know  you,  antiquated  pander,  that 
in  this  day,  a  young  man's  lot  is  not  a  happy  one.  Every 
where  I  go,  excepting  only  this  park,  women  follow  me. 
They  stalk  me.  They  covet  me.  They  make  my  days 
miserable.  They  haunt  my  sleep.  They  simper  about  me, 
wink  at  me,  rub  against  me  like  silken  cats.  (With  vex 
ation)  Ah,  I  would  almost  end  my  life  from  very  irrita 
tion  with  their  wiles,  their  snaring  pursuits,  from  the  very 
annoyance  of  their  cloying  affection.  And  the  worst  part 
of  it  is  that  I  know  myself  susceptible. 

PUNCHINELLO  (slyly) .  There  is  no  charm  in  the  world 
against  falling  in  love,  but  I  can  sell  you  a  powder  which, 
tossed  into  the  air,  will  bring  destruction  to  women  alone. 

HARLEQUIN  (rubbing  his  chin  doubtfully).  No,  that's  too 
brutal.  I  couldn't  kill  them  all  even  if  I  wanted  to.  And 
what  use  to  destroy  a  hundred,  a  thousand,  even  a  million 
women,  and  have  one  sneak  up  behind  you  and  get  you 
after  all.  It  would  be  an  effort  wasted.  Love  is  inevitable. 

PUNCHINELLO.  Wait.  Ho,  ho !  I  have  it,  the  very  thing. 
If  one  cannot  remove  the  inevitable,  at  any  rate  one  can 
hide  from  it.  What  doesn't  see  you,  can't  get  you. 
Ha,  ha !  I  can  sell  you  a  hat. 

HARLEQUIN.     I  am  not  in  the  market  for  a  hat. 

PUNCHINELLO  (triumphantly) .  But,  a  magic  hat !  A  Wonder 
Hat !  It  will  make  you  invisible. 

HARLEQUIN  (incredulously) .     Invisible  ! 

PUNCHINELLO  (fishing  in  his  bag).  When  you  put  it  on,  you 
will  be  invisible  to  the  world.  You  will  exist  only  in  your 
own  mind.  You  will  escape  the  pernicious  sentimentality, 
the  never-ending  blandishments,  the  strategic  coquetry 
of  women.  Ho,  ho  !  Ha,  ha  ! 

HARLEQUIN  (eagerly).  Come,  you  millinery  sorcerer.  You 
have  convinced  me.  Invisibility  is  the  one  thing  I  crave 
to  make  me  sublimely  happy.  Splendid.  They  shall 
never  simper  at  me  again,  never  undulate  before  my  tor 
mented  eyes.  I  will  buy  it. 

PUNCHINELLO  (holding  up  the  hat).     Is  it  not  a  creation? 


284  THE  WONDER  HAT 

HARLEQUIN  (looking  at  the  hat  with  distaste).  God,  what  a 
thing  to  wear !  I  would  not  wear  it,  you  may  be  sure, 
were  it  not  invisible.  Being  invisible,  I  assure  you,  is  its 
chief  charm.  Indeed,  any  man  would  prefer  not  to  be 
seen  in  such  a  hat. 

PUNCHINELLO.  It  may  be  unlovely  in  outline,  coarse  in  tex 
ture,  unrefined  in  color,  but  there  is  only  one  other  such 
hat  in  the  world.  It  belongs  to  the  Grand  Llamah  of 
Thibet.  Ha,  ha !  This  one  will  cost  you  gold. 

HARLEQUIN  (cautiously) .  But,  first  I  must  see  if  it  is  really 
a  wonder  hat. 

PUNCHINELLO.     I  will  put  it  on. 
[He  does  so. 

HARLEQUIN  (delighted).     A  miracle!     Where  are  you? 

PUNCHINELLO  (removing  the  hat  with  a  flourish) .     Now  ! 

HARLEQUIN.  What  wonders  I  will  do  with  that  hat.  I  will 
walk  the  streets  in  comfort  and  security.  But  stay ! 
What  if  the  hat  is  only  charmed  for  you?  What  if  the 
charm  does  not  apply  to  me  ? 

PUNCHINELLO.     You  shall  try  it  yourself.     Put  it  on. 
[Harlequin  takes  the  hat  and  puts  it  on. 

HARLEQUIN.     Can  you  see  me  ? 

PUNCHINELLO.  By  St.  Peter  of  Padua,  not  a  speck  of  you ! 
[He  gropes  with  his  hands,  then  strikes  out  with  his  staff  and 
strikes  Harlequin  on  the  shins. 

HARLEQUIN.     Ooh !     Ouch ! 

PUNCHINELLO.     You  see  you  are  quite  invisible. 

HARLEQUIN.     But  not  invulnerable. 
[He  rubs  his  shin. 

PUNCHINELLO.  How  much  will  you  give  me  for  this  Wonder 
Hat? 

HARLEQUIN.     Are  you  sure  you  can't  see  me  ? 

PUNCHINELLO.     You  are  one  with  the  thin  air  and  the  fairies 
that  inhabit  it. 
[Rubbing  his  hands. 

HARLEQUIN.  There's  no  uncanny  trick  by  which  Columbine 
can  discover  me  ? 


THE  WONDER  HAT  285- 

PUNCHINELLO.     None !    None !    I  swear  it.     It's  only  by 
your  voice  that  I  know  where  you  are. 
[He  swings  out  with  his  staff.     Harlequin  leaps  nimbly  aside. 

PUNCHINELLO.  For  years  I  have  treasured  this  wonder  hat. 
A  blind  woman  with  seven  teeth  and  one  eye  made  it  in 
a  haunted  hut.  It  was  cooked  over  a  fire  of  serpents* 
skins.  (As  Punchinello  speaks,  Harlequin  tiptoes  away  to 
the  right  around  the  central  group  of  shrubbei-y)  It  is  colored 
with  the  dye  of  a  magic  root.  It  is  older  than  the  oldest 
cloud  and  you  can  figure  out  for  yourself  how  old  that 
would  be.  Ho,  ho !  There's  no  charm  like  it  to  be  had 
from  one  peak  of  the  world  to  the  other.  (He  swings 
out  again  with  his  staff)  Five  bags  of  gold,  sir.  Cheap, 
a  bargain.  Hey !  (He  swings  his  staff)  Hey !  Hey ! 
Where  are  you  ?  Take  off  my  hat  so  that  I  can  see  you. 
Give  me  back  my  hat.  (He  stands  still  and  listens) 
Thief!  Thief!  He's  gone.  Oh,  what  a  fool.  First 
my  magic  slipper,  worth  fifty  pots  of  gold.  What 
a  doddering  idiot !  I  have  lost  my  magic  hat,  my  wonder 
hat.  I've  been  cheated,  robbed.  Oh,  what  a  stitch  in 
my  side.  Oh,  oh  !  (He  gathers  up  his  pack  hurriedly,  then 
stops  and  taps  the  side  of  his  nose  with  his  finger)  Ho,  ho ! 
A  thought !  What  a  pair  of  lovers  they  will  make  !  She 
with  her  slipper.  He  with  his  hat.  She  said  Harlequin. 
He  said  Columbine.  Yes,  yes !  I  shall  have  my  reward. 
They  are  the  fools,  not  I.  As  if  love  were  not  enough 
magic  of  itself.  Ho,  ho,  ho !  I  must  follow  her.  She 
went  this  way. 

[He  moves  off  toward  the  right,  leaving  his  camp  stool.  Har 
lequin  appears  round  the  left  end  of  the  shrubbery  and  ad 
vances  cautiously  to  center  of  stage. 

HARLEQUIN  (looking  after  Punchinello).  I  should  have  paid 
him  if  he  hadn't  run  away  like  that.  I  detest  the  idea  of 
cheating  anybody.  But  of  course,  one  can't  be  running 
after  tradespeople,  pressing  money  upon  them.  It  simply 
isn't  done.  (He  looks  in  the  other  direction)  Columbine 
should  have  made  the  round  of  the  park  by  this  time. 


986  THE  WONDER  HAT 

What's  keeping  her  ?  Here  I  am  waiting  for  her,  as  safe 
and  invisible  as  the  angels  themselves.  (He  sits  down  on 
the  camp  stool  and  holds  his  hand  before  his  face)  No,  I 
can't  see  it.  I  wonder  if  I  have  a  hand  or  a  leg,  or  a 
stomach,  or  a  heart  ?  If  I  don't  take  off  my  hat  and  look 
at  myself  I  shall  soon  become  a  total  stranger  to  myself. 
What  a  wonder  hat !  ( There  is  the  sound  of  women's 
voices  in  the  distance.  He  pricks  up  his  ears)  Ah,  her 
voice !  Like  the  tinkling  bells  in  a  shrine  of  ivory.  Like 
the  patter  of  crystal  rain  in  a  pool  of  scarlet  lilies.  (He 
slaps  his  leg)  Ah,  ha!  I'm  in  love.  In  love!  To  the 
tips  of  where  my  fingers  ought  to  be.  (He  becomes  serious) 
If  I  should  take  off  my  hat,  I'd  be  lost.  She  would  pounce 
on  me,  and,  being  in  love,  I  should  pounce  back.  My  hat 
must  stay  on.  I  will  tie  it  on.  I  will  nail  it  on.  Curse 
me  if  I  take  off  my  hat.  (He  pull&  his  hat  down  to  the  tips 
of  his  ears,  then  clasps  his  hands)  Ah,  to  sit  by  her,  safe 
and  unseen !  To  bask  in  the  splendor  of  her  presence. 
To  love  and  be  loved  only  as  a  dream.  To  be  free  from  all 
material  entanglements  and  responsibilities.  To  touch 
her  with  invisible  fingers  and  permit  the  stolen  thrills 
to  course  up  and  down  my  invisible  spine !  (He  sings) 

Wandering  Minstrel  Air 

A  love-sick  atom  I, 

A  thing  unseen  and  seeing, 

For  in  my  hat  am  I 

A  hypothetical  being. 

(He  suddenly  has  a  new  thought)  But  what  if,  being  unable 
to  see  me,  she  should  fall  in  love  with  somebody  else? 
That  vapid  ass,  Pierrot,  for  instance?  Oh,  God,  what 
if  he  should  strike  fire  in  her  heart?  But  I  will  not  take 
off  my  hat.  Kind  heaven,  give  me  the  strength  to  keep 
my  hat  on. 

[He  pulls  the  hat  still  further  over  his  ears,  just  as  Columbine 
and  Margot  enter  from  the  left. 


THE  WONDER  HAT  287 

COLUMBINE.  This  is  too  much !  Did  you  ever  see  such  a 
rabble? 

MARGOT.  I  shouldn't  be  so  particular,  miss,  seeing  as  how 
you  brought  it  on  yourself. 

COLUMBINE.  They've  risen  from  every  bench  to  follow  me. 
They've  come  from  every  corner  of  the  park ;  burglars, 
doctors,  poets,  whiskered  Don  Juans,  rumbling  Romeos. 
Great  Heavens,  the  idiots  !  If  they  hadn't  fallen  to  fight 
ing  among  themselves,  we'd  have  been  trampled  to  death. 
I  —  I  hope  they  exterminate  each  other.  I  hope  I  never 
see  them  again.  I  —  I  — 

[Harlequin,  seeing  Columbine  in  such  an  angry  mood,  rises 
cautiously  and  in  so  doing  upsets  the  camp  stool.  He  stands 
trembling  and  holding  on  to  his  hat. 

MARGOT  (starting) .     Bless  me,  what's  that  ? 

[Both  look  around.  Their  eyes  pass  over  Harlequin  without 
seeing  him. 

COLUMBINE.     Nothing.     There's  nobody  here. 

[Evidently  much  relieved,  Harlequin  tiptoes  to  the  right  end 
of  the  fountain. 

MARGOT.     If  you  want  my  honest  opinion,  miss  — 

COLUMBINE  (stamping  her  foot).  How  many  times  must  I 
tell  you  — 

MARGOT.     Be  careful  with  that  magic  boot,  miss. 

COLUMBINE.  What's  the  good  of  it?  It's  brought  me 
nothing  but  trouble. 

MARGOT.     Well,  what  did  you  expect  ? 

COLUMBINE  (almost  weeping).  It  hasn't  brought  him.  It 
hasn't  brought  Harlequin. 

MARGOT.  If  you  want  my  opinion,  miss,  honest  or  other 
wise  — 

COLUMBINE  (stamping  her  foot  again).     I  don't! 

MARGOT.     Then  I  won't  give  it  to  you. 

COLUMBINE.  Oh,  Margot,  be  gentle  with  me.  I  love  him 
—  and  I'm  dreadfully  uncomfortable  about  it. 

MARGOT.  Well,  there's  worse  discomfort.  There's  clergy 
man's  sore  throat,  for  instance,  and  housemaid's  knee. 


288  THE   WONDER  HAT 

COLUMBINE  (clinching  her  hands).     Oh,  if  I  could  only  see 

him  now,  the  cold-hearted  fish !     I'd  fix  him !     I'd  melt 

his  icy  blood  for  him ! 

[Harlequin  holds  tight  to  his  hat. 
M ARGOT  (soothingly).     Of  course  you  would.     Of  course  you 

would. 
COLUMBINE  (sits  on  fountain) .     But  he  can't  escape.     The 

magic  slipper  will  draw  him  from  the  ends  of  the  earth. 

I'll  marry  him.     I'll  have  him  for  my  own,  locked  under 

key  in  a  house ;  a  beautiful  little  house,  all  new  and  spick 

and  span,  with  white  trimmings  and  green  shutters. 
M  ARGOT.     If  I  may  put  in  a  word  for  myself,  miss,  I  hope 

you  won't  have  a  basement  kitchen. 
COLUMBINE.     But    I'll    make    him    suffer   first.     I'll  —  I'll 

(spitefully)  — 

[Harlequin  jams  his  hat  down  tighter  and  disappears  behind 

the  fountain. 

MARGOT.     If  you  must  get  het  up  and  stamp,  miss,  I'd  ad 
vise  you  to  confine  your  stamping  to  the  foot  which  ain't 

got  the  magic  boot  on. 

COLUMBINE.     Margot,  were  you  ever  in  love  ? 
MARGOT.     You  know  very  well,  miss,  I  have  three  babies 

at  home. 

COLUMBINE.     Tell  me,  did  you  love  their  father  ? 
MARGOT.     It's  my  honest  opinion,  miss,  there  were  three 

fathers,  and  I  loved  them  all  very  much. 
COLUMBINE  (shocked).     Then  you're  a  wicked  woman. 
MARGOT.     There  are  opinions  concerning  that  question,  miss, 

honest  and  otherwise. 
COLUMBINE.     You  are,  I  say. 
MARGOT.     Which  I  choose,  begging  your  pardon,  to  consider 

as  an  otherwise  opinion.     Being  a  father  to  three  babies 

puts  an  awful  responsibility  on  a  man,  as  you  may  find 

out  for  yourself  some  day.     So  I  was  careful  to  distribute 

the  burden. 

[Pierrot  enters  dishevelled  and  breathless.     He  advances  and 
flings  himself  on  one  knee  before  Columbine. 


THE   WONDER  HAT  289 

PIERROT.     At  last,  exquisite  Columbine,  ravishing  vision,  I 
have  overcome  my  rivals.     I  have  vanquished  a  legion  of 
your  adorers. 
[Harlequin  peeps  round  the  left  side  of  the  fountain. 

MARGOT.  Lord  love  us,  you  look  as  though  you'd  been  run 
through  a  threshing  machine. 

PIERROT.     I  have.     I  kicked  Scaramouche  in  the  stomach 
and  pushed  the  Doctor  of  Bologna  into  a  lily  pond.     Divine 
Circe,  I  have  come  to  claim  my  reward. 
[He  clutches  at  the  edge  of  Columbine's  dress. 

COLUMBINE.  You're  tearing  the  trimming  off  my  petti 
coat. 

PIERROT.     Columbine,  Columbine,  I  love  you  ! 

MARGOT  (taking  his  arm  and  pulling  him  to  his  feet).  Get 
up,  you  big  baby. 

[Harlequin  tiptoes  across  the  stage  and  stands  behind  Margot 
and  Pierrot. 

PIERROT  (clasping  his  hands).  I  love  you,  Columbine.  Lis 
ten  to  me. 

COLUMBINE  (haughtily).  This  is  a  very  sudden  change  on 
your  part,  Mr.  Pierrot.  Yesterday  you  snubbed  me  quite 
openly. 

PIERROT.  Forgive  me  !  I  was  blind  !  I  was  a  dolt.  I  have 
only  just  now  come  to  my  senses. 

MARGOT  (turning  her  shoulder  to  him  and  folding  her  arms). 
You'll  come  to  something  worse  presently. 

PIERROT.     I  love  you.     I  love  you. 

[Harlequin  reaches  out  and  deftly  extracts  a  long  hat  pin 
from  the  back  of  Margot's  cap.  Margot  puts  her  hands  to 
her  head  and  turns  fiercely  on  Pierrot. 

MARGOT.     How  dast  you  grab  my  hat? 

PIERROT  (in  astonishment).     I  never  touched  your  hat. 

MARGOT.     You  did. 

PIERROT  (turning  on  her) .     I  —  I  did  nothing  of  the  sort. 

MARGOT.  There's  laws  to  cover  this  sort  of  thing  —  an 
noying  women  in  a  public  park. 

PIERROT.     You're  an  impudent  hussy. 


290  THE  WONDER  HAT 

MARGOT.  You're  nothing  but  a  common,  ordinary  home 
wrecker. 

[Harlequin  approaches   Columbine  and  gently  touches  her 
hair.     Pierrot  and  Margot  glare  at  each  other. 

COLUMBINE    (clasping    her    hands).     Margot,    Margot,    it's 
wonderful !     It's  divine.     I  feel  as  if  the  air  were  sud 
denly  full  of  kisses. 
[Harlequin  strikes  an  attitude  of  complete  satisfaction. 

MARGOT.     It's  full  of  dampness  and  nasty  language,  that's 
what  it  is. 
[She  gives  Pierrot  a  venomous  look. 

PIERROT  (again  falling  on  his  knees).  It's  full  of  unspeakable 
ecstasy  of  my  adoration. 

COLUMBINE  (paying  no  attention  to  him).  It's  full  of  mar- 
velously  shy  caresses.  They  are  like  the  wings  of  happy 
butterflies,  brushing  the  white  lilac  blooms. 

PIERROT.  Ah,  what  did  I  tell  you  ?  The  love  I  offer  you  is 
a  gift,  a  treasure. 

COLUMBINE  (her  hands  still  clasped).  I  can  almost  hear  in 
visible  lips  sighing  my  name  —  his  lips  —  Harlequin's  lips. 

PIERROT  (straightening  himself  up  on  his  knees) .  What's  that 
you  say  about  Harlequin  ? 

COLUMBINE  (coming  to  herself).     It's  none  of  your  business. 

PIERROT  (spitefully).  Good  God!  To  think  of  intruding 
that  fellow's  name  at  a  time  like  this.  Why,  the  chap's 
positively  a  bounder.  He  has  no  taste,  no  education,  no 
refinement.  And  his  face  —  ugh !  He'd  frighten  him 
self  to  death  if  he  looked  in  a  mirror  before  his  barber  got 
to  him  in  the  morning. 

[Harlequin  steps  behind  Pierrot  and  prods  him  in  the  back 
with  the  hat  pin. 

PIERROT.  Ooh  !  Ouch!  (He  springs  to  his  feet  and  turns  on 
Margot)  You  —  you  did  that.  You  —  you  know  you  did. 
[Shaking  his  finger  in  her  face. 

MARGOT  (taken  aback) .     Did  what  ? 

PIERROT  (in  a  rage) .  You  —  you  stabbed  me  in  the  back 
and  don't  you  deny  it. 


THE  WONDER  HAT  291 

M ARGOT.     The  man's  stark,  staring  mad ! 

COLUMBINE  (to  Pierrot  in  an  icy  tone).     Will  you  be  good 

enough  to  explain  what's  the  matter  with  you? 
PIERROT   (his   eyes   still  on  Margot).     I've   been   attacked, 

lacerated. 

MARGOT.     If  you  don't  behave  yourself,  I'll  give  you  some 
thing  to  howl  about. 
PIERROT  (again  falling  at  Columbine's  feet).     But  it's  nothing, 

nothing  to  the  torments  I  suffer  from  your  heartlessness. 

Nothing  to  the  — 

(Harlequin  stabs  again) 

Ouch !   Wow !    Hell's  fire !    Animals !    I'm  being  bitten 

to  death ! 

[He  clasps  his  hand  to  the  spot. 
MARGOT.     And  a  good  riddance,  too ! 
COLUMBINE.     Come,  Margot.     I  won't  stay  here.     I  won't 

be  insulted. 
PIERROT  (again  grasping  the  hem  of  her  gown).     No,  no,  I'll 

suffer    everything.     I'll    suffer    in    silence.     Only    don't 

leave  me.     Speak  to  me.     I  love  you.     I  - 
COLUMBINE.     Let  go  my  dress  or  I'll  scream  for  help. 
MARGOT.     If  you  really  want  help,  miss,  it's  my  advice  take 

off  the  slipper. 

[Harlequin,  who  has  been  about  to  attack  Pierrot,  hesitates  and 

looks  puzzled. 
COLUMBINE.     Yes,  yes.     Why  didn't  I  think  of  it. 

[She  whips  off  the  magic  slipper  and  holds  it  in  her  hand. 

The  moment  the  slipper  leaves  her  foot,   Pierrot  sits  back 

on  his  haunches  and  lets  go  of  the  edge  of  Columbine's 

dress. 
PIERROT  (in  a  feeble  voice).     I  love  you.      I  —  (He  rubs  his 

head)     By  Jove,  this  is  most  extraordinary ! 
MARGOT  (clapping  her  hands).     Toss  it  to  me,  miss. 

[Columbine  tosses  the  slipper  to  Margot. 
MARGOT  (examining  the  slipper).     What  a  rummy   slipper! 

(She  takes  off  her  shoe)    I  wonder  what's  inside  of  it.    Love  ? 

(She  puts  it  on  her  own  foot)    Ooh  !     How  it  tickles  ! 


THE  WONDER  HAT 


[Pierrot  rises  from  his  knees  and  looks  helplessly  from  Col 

umbine  to  Margot. 
COLUMBINE.     Well,  Mr.  Pierrot? 
PIERROT  (completely  puzzled)  .     I  am  quite  at  a  loss  to  explain 

my  feelings. 

[He  hesitates,  then  turns  and  kneels  before  Margot.     Harle 

quin  appears  even  more  puzzled.     He  is  also  drawn  toward 

Margot  by  the  spell  of  the  slipper,  but  his  natural  infatua 

tion  for  Columbine  seems  to  neutralize  the  charm.     He  is 

visibly  perplexed. 
PIERROT.     Incomparable    Margot  !     Queen    among    house 

maids  !     Divine  custodian  of  my  deepest  affections. 
MARGOT.    You  see,  miss,  the  gentleman  is  now  in  love  with  me. 
COLUMBINE.     Disgusting  ! 
PIERROT.     I  am  drawn  by  some  irresistible  power  of  fasci 

nation.     I  —  belong  to  you  utterly. 
MARGOT.     You  belong   in    jail,    that's    where   you   belong. 

You're  nothing  but  a  —  a  shameless  affinity. 
PIERROT  (clinging  to  the  hem  of  M  argot's  skirt).     I  love  you. 

I  swear  it.     See,  I  kiss  the  hem  of  your  gown.     I  throw 

myself  on  your  mercy. 

MARGOT  (weakening)  .     Oh,  la,  la  !     Listen  to  the  man  talk  ! 
COLUMBINE.     You're  a  brazen  hussy  to  take  advantage  of 

your  social  superior. 

MARGOT  (haughtily).     My  superior?     Him? 
COLUMBINE  (stamping  her  foot)  .     You're  forgetting  your  place. 
PIERROT.     I  love  you.     I  love  you. 
MARGOT  (slyly).     Suppose,  miss,  I  was  to  say  I  believe  every 

word  he  says  to  me? 
COLUMBINE.     I'd  say  you  were  an  artful,  designing  minx. 

I'd  discharge  you  without  a  shred  of  character. 
MARGOT.     Well,  you  won't  have  to  —  because  I  ain't  going 

to  say  it. 
PIERROT  (making  another  grab  at  her  skirt).     You  must  listen 

to  me.     You  must. 

[Harlequin  stabs  him  once  more  with  the  hat  pin. 

Ouch  !     Wow  !     This  is  terrible.     I  love  you. 


THE   WONDER  HAT  293 

MARGOT.     Hey  !     Get  up.     A  woman  what  works  for  a  living 

can't  afford  to  have  her  good  nerves  shattered  for  her. 

[She  tries  to  shake  of  Pierrot. 

COLUMBINE.     Give  me  back  the  slipper,  this  instant. 
MARGOT.     You're  welcome  to  it,  I'm  sure. 

(She  snatches  off  the  slipper  and  tosses  it  away  from  her. 

Columbine  picks  it  up,  but  does  not  put  it  on) 

Now  will  you  leave  go  of  me  ? 

[To  Pierrot.     He  releases  her  in  a  dazed  way. 
PIERROT.     I  love  you.     I  - 

[He  arisen  and  again  looks  from  one  to  the  other.     Columbine 

holds  the  slipper  in  her  hand. 
COLUMBINE.     Well,  sir? 

MARGOT.       Well  ? 

PIERROT  (adjusting  his  collar  and  speaking  quite  calmly).  I 
consider  myself  fortunate  in  having  escaped  you  both.  I 
see  now  that  there  is  something  deadly  about  that  slipper. 
To  think  that  a  man  of  my  intellectual  and  artistic  at 
tainments  should  have  been  affected  by  such  a  slippery 
artifice.  In  love  with  a  boot !  How  very  trivial ! 

MARGOT.     Well,  what  are  you  going  to  do  now  ? 

PIERROT.  I  don't  know  exactly.  Perhaps  I  shall  drown  my 
self  in  the  fountain. 

[He  turns  his  back  on  Margot  and  Columbine  and  assumes  a 
pose  of  thoughtful  indifference.  Harlequin  again  approaches 
Columbine. 

COLUMBINE.  Margot,  Margot,  what  shall  I  do  ?  I'm  faint. 
I'm  intoxicated.  He  hasn't  come  and  yet  I  feel  as  if  he 
were  near  me,  almost  touching  me.  I  feel  all  the  exquisite 
uncertainty  of  love.  Yes,  yes,  I  love  him.  I  love  Har 
lequin  and  I  know  that  he  loves  me  in  return.  I  know  it, 
and  yet,  and  yet  — 

MARGOT.     Yes,  miss,  and  yet  —  ? 

COLUMBINE  (wringing  her  hands) .  And  yet  I  don't  know  what 
under  heavens  to  do  about  it. 

[Harlequin  clasps  his  hands  in  an  ecstasy  of  complete  satis 
faction.     Margot  and  Columbine  are  now  at  one  side  and 


294  THE   WONDER  HAT 

Margot  speaks  in  a  tone  which  Harlequin  and  Pierrot  are  not 
supposed  to  hear. 

MARGOT.  It's  my  advice,  miss,  put  the  slipper  on  again. 
What  if  it  don't  catch  this  here  Harlequin  ?  There's  just 
as  big  perch  in  the  puddle  as  ever  came  out  of  it.  That's 
my  motto.  Besides,  there  is  such  a  thing  as  making  the 
right  man  jealous. 

COLUMBINE  (brightening  immediately).  I  believe  you're 
right.  I'll  put  on  the  slipper.  I'll  have  a  desperate 
flirtation  with  Pierrot.  I'll  take  him  everywhere  with 
me.  I'll  dangle  him  before  Harlequin's  eyes.  It  will 
serve  them  both  right.  (She  puts  on  the  slipper  and  speaks 
archly)  Mr.  Pierrot. 

PIERROT  (turning).     Eh?     I  beg  your  pardon. 

COLUMBINE.     I  —  don't  want  you  to  be  angry  with  me. 
[Pierrot  looks  puzzled  for  a  moment,  then  succumbs  to  the  spell 
of  the  slipper  again  and  rushes  toward  her. 

PIERROT.  I  —  I  don't  —  (He  throws  himself  on  his  knees) 
Columbine,  Columbine,  my  angel,  my  flower,  my  enchant 
ress  ! 

COLUMBINE  (shaking  her  finger  at  him) .     You  were  very  rude 
to  me  a  few  moments  ago. 
[Harlequin  watches  with  puzzled  interest. 

PIERROT.     Forgive  me  !     It  was  a  dream.     I  love  you ! 

COLUMBINE.  You  accused  me  of  having  ensnared  your  af 
fections  by  means  of  a  charm. 

PIERROT.  A  charm  ?  I  don't  know  anything  about  a  charm. 
I  am  charmed  only  by  your  eyes,  your  lips,  the  flow  of  your 
voice. 

COLUMBINE.  Do  you  know  I  think  it's  very  sweet  of  you  to 
say  that,  after  all  that's  happened  this  evening. 

PIERROT.     I  can  say  more,  a  thousand  times  more. 

COLUMBINE.     Perhaps  I  shall  give  you  the  chance. 

HARLEQUIN  (aloud,  completely  overcome  with  jealousy) .  Here's 
a  fine  kettle  of  fish ! 

PIERROT.     You  —  you  do  love  me  then,  after  all  ? 

COLUMBINE.     I  haven't  said  so. 


THE  WONDER  HAT  295 

HARLEQUIN.  I  shall  put  a  stop  to  this.  (He  seems  to  come  to 
a  tremendous  resolution)  I  —  I  shall  take  off  my  hat. 

MABGOT.     Lord  have  mercy,  what  is  that? 

COLUMBINE.     Please  give  me  your  arm. 

HARLEQUIN.     Thousand  devils,  I  can't  get  it  off ! 

COLUMBINE.     You  may  see  me  to  my  door. 

HARLEQUIN  (frantically).  Wait!  Stop!  —  If,  —  if  I  could 
only  get  my  hat  off ! 

MARGOT  (alarmed).     I  want  to  get  away  from  here. 

COLUMBINE  (listening).     It's  Harlequin's  voice. 

PIERROT.     I  don't  see  anybody. 

[They  all  look  about  them.  Punchinello  enters  from  the  left 
with  his  pack  on  his  back.  They  all  see  him. 

PUNCHINELLO.  Ho,  ho,  ha  ha  !  There  you  are,  eh  ?  There 
you  are.  I've  been  looking  for  you.  Ho,  ho !  And 
now  I've  caught  up  with  you. 

[Columbine  hastily  snatches  of  her  slipper  and  hides  it  be 
hind  her.  They  all  face  Punchinello.  Harlequin  tiptoes  to 
one  side  and  watches  curiously. 

COLUMBINE.     What  do  you  want? 

PUNCHINELLO.  What  do  I  want,  eh  ?  You  know  very  well 
what  I  want.  I  want  my  magic  slipper,  my  magic  slipper 
that  you  stole  from  me. 

COLUMBINE.     I  didn't  steal  it.     You  gave  it  to  me.' 

PUNCHINELLO.  Ho,  ho !  That's  a  pretty  story.  I  gave  it 
to  you,  eh  ?  Well,  I  changed  my  mind. 

COLUMBINE.     I  —  I'm  perfectly  willing  to  pay  you  for  it. 

MARGOT.  Don't  you  give  him  a  cent,  the  miserable 
oyster. 

COLUMBINE.     How  much  do  you  want  for  it  ? 

PUNCHINELLO.     I  should  think  about  ten  bags  of  gold. 

COLUMBINE.  Ridiculous !  There  isn't  so  much  money  in 
the  whole  world. 

PUNCHINELLO  (pointing  to  Pierrot).  Perhaps  this  nice  gentle 
man  would  like  to  buy  it  for  you  ? 

PIERROT.  I  —  (He  looks  at  Columbine)  I  have  only  the  most 
casual  acquaintance  with  this  lady. 


296  THE  WONDER  HAT 

HARLEQUIN  (in  a  rage,  to  Pierrot).     You  infernal  little  cad! 

You  — 

[He  makes  a  movement  toward  Pierrot.     All  start  away  from 

his  voice  but  Punchinello. 
PUNCHINELLO.     Ho,  ho !     So  you're  here.     Two  birds  with 

one  stone.     (He  rubs  his  hands)     My  magic  slipper  and 

my  beloved  Wonder  Hat.     Well,  well,  well ! 

(Harlequin,  seeing  he  has  betrayed  his  presence,  stands  as  if 

undecided  what  to  do.     Punchinello  strikes  about  him  with 

his  staff) 

Hey,  where  are  you  ?     Take  off  my  hat. 
MARGOT.     For  the  love  of  heaven,  what  is  he  raving  about 

now? 
PUNCHINELLO.     My  hat,   my  Wonder  Hat.     I  sold  it  to 

Harlequin  for  five  bags  of  gold  —  six  bags  of  gold. 
COLUMBINE.     You  sold  it  to  Harlequin  ? 
PUNCHINELLO.     Aye,    the    ruffian,    the    highwayman.     He 

clapped  it  on  his  head  and  now  he's  invisible. 
COLUMBINE   (in  delighted  wonder).     You  really  mean  that 

Harlequin  is  here,  near  us  ?     Oh,  I  knew  it.     I  felt  it. 
PUNCHINELLO.     Of  course,  he's  here.     Hey,  you,  take  off 

my  hat.     (He  swings  his  staff  and  Harlequin  dances  out  of 

the  way) 

Take  off  my  hat  or  give  me  my  eight  bags  of  gold.     (He 

swings  his  staff  again)     Hey,  thief ! 
HARLEQUIN.     I'm  not  a  thief.     I'd  have  paid  you  for  your 

hat  if  you  hadn't  run  away  in  such  a  huff.     Now,  after  the 

way  you've  acted,  I  shall  take  my  own  time  about  it. 
COLUMBINE  (stamping  her  foot).     Harlequin. 
HARLEQUIN  (in  a  dubious  voice) .     Ye  —  yes  ? 
COLUMBINE.     Take  off  that  silly  hat  this  minute ! 
HARLEQUIN.     I  —  well,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  — 
COLUMBINE.     Don't  you  hear  what  I'm  saying  ?     Give  it  back 

this  second. 
HARLEQUIN.     I  would  first  like  some  sort  of  assurance,  some 

guarantee  of  good  faith,  some  — - 
COLUMBINE.     I'm  not  making  any  promises  this  evening. 


THE  WONDER  HAT  £97 

HARLEQUIN  (plaintively).  My  dear  Columbine,  I  have 
learned  a  good  deal  about  my  own  feelings  in  the  last 
half  hour.  I  am  perfectly  willing  to  return  this  man's 
property  and  to  submit  to  the  ordinary  and  normal  risks 
of  society,  but  I  positively  insist  that,  before  I  reveal 
myself,  you  must  also  return  to  him  all  sundry  charms, 
spells,  et  cetera,  which  might,  if  used  either  by  accident 
or  malice  aforethought,  affect  my  own  future  course  of 
action. 

COLUMBINE  (remaining  absolutely  firm).  I've  told  you  once 
that  I  won't  make  any  promises. 

HARLEQUIN.     Then,  I  remain  invisible. 

PUNCHINELLO.  I  tell  you  once  more,  give  me  back  my 
hat. 

HARLEQUIN  (folding  his  arms).     No. 

PUNCHINELLO.  Ah,  ha !  Then  I  shall  have  my  revenge. 
Know,  miserable  butterfly,  that  you  are  trifling  with 
magic  beyond  your  own  powers  of  control.  There  is  a 
terrible  clause  in  the  incorporation  of  this  hat.  Listen. 
He  who  steals  this  Wonder  Hat  and  places  it  upon  his  own 
head,  cannot  remove  it  again  except  in  the  presence  and 
with  the  consent  of  its  rightful  owner.  When  I  have  left 
you,  you  will  become  for  all  time  one  with  the  interstellar 
atoms.  You  will  never  resume  your  mortal  shape.  You 
will  haunt  the  cafes.  You  will  moon  among  the  boxes  at 
the  opera.  You  will  sigh  and  pine  in  the  wake  of  beautiful 
women,  as  futile  and  impalpable  as  a  gust  of  summer  wind. 
(He  picks  up  his  pack)  Now,  will  you  give  me  back  my 
hat? 

HARLEQUIN  (with  evident  effort  at  firmness).  No,  not  unless 
Columbine  first  returns  the  slipper. 

PUNCHINELLO.     Madam,  I  make  my  last  appeal  to  you. 

COLUMBINE  (folding  her  arms).     Not  unless  Harlequin  first 
returns  the  hat. 
[Punchinello  looks  from  one  to  the  other. 

PUNCHINELLO.  Come,  ladies  and  gentlemea,  I  have  urgent 
business  elsewhere. 


298  THE  WONDER  HAT 

PIERROT.  Might  I  suggest  that  the  simplest  way  out  of  the 
dilemma  would  be  for  each  of  the  principal  parties  to  re 
turn  the  pilfered  articles  at  the  same  exact  time. 

PUNCHINELLO.     An  excellent  idea. 

PIERROT.  I  shall  count,  and  at  the  word  "three"  —  is  that 
satisfactory  to  everybody  ? 

HARLEQUIN  (doubtfully) .     Ye  —  yes. 

COLUMBINE  (doubtfully) .     Ye  —  yes. 

PIERROT.  Very  well,  then.  One  —  (Harlequin  begins  to 
loosen  the  hat)  Two  — 

MARGOT  (stepping  forward).  Stop,  everybody.  You,  Mis 
tress  Columbine,  and  you,  invisible  Mr.  Harlequin.  Be 
cause  no  matter  what  you  do,  somebody's  bound  to  regret 
it.  You,  wherever  you  are,  keep  your  lid  on  and  your 
mouth  shut.  I  want  to  put  it  up  to  the  kind  ladies  and 
gentlemen  that  have  been  studying  this  performance  and 
I  asks  them  openly,  what  should  be  done  at  this  point? 
Should  Columbine  give  back  the  slipper  or  should  she 
hang  on  to  what  she's  got?  Should  Harlequin  take  off 
his  hat  ?  Personally,  my  honest  opinion  is  that  the  ques 
tion  can't  be  answered  to  suit  everybody  so  it's  my  ad 
vice  that  we  ring  down  right  here  and  allow  every  one  to 
go  home  and  fix  up  an  ending  to  conform  to  the  state  of 
one's  own  digestion. 

PIERROT.  But  you  know,  we're  being  paid  to  finish  this 
thing. 

HARLEQUIN.  Paid  ?  We're  not  working  for  money.  We're 
working  for  love. 

COLUMBINE.     Love ! 

MARGOT.     Aw,  hell ! 

QUICK   CURTAIN 


SUPPRESSED   DESIRES 

GEORGE  CRAM  COOK 

MR.  GEORGE  CRAM  COOK  was  born  in  Davenport,  Iowa,  in 
1873.  He  studied  at  the  University  of  Iowa,  Harvard, 
Heidelberg,  and  the  University  of  Geneva.  He  was  pro 
fessor  at  the  University  of  Iowa  from  1895  to  1899,  and  at 
Leland  Stanford  University  from  1902  to  1903.  In  1911  he 
was  Associate  Literary  Editor  of  the  Chicago  Evening  Post. 

He  is  the  author  of:  "In  Hampton  Roads"  (novel), 
"Roderick  Taliaferro",  "Evolution  and  the  Superman", 
"The  Chasm"  (novel),  "Battle  Hymn  of  the  Workers", 
"An  American  Hero",  "The  Third  American  Sex",  "The 
W.C.T.U.",  "The  Breath  of  War"  (play),  and,  in  collabora 
tion  with  Susan  Glaspell,  the  two  plays:  "Suppressed  De 
sires"  and  "Tickless  Time." 

He  has  been  director  of  the  Provincetown  Players  —  of 
Provincetown,  Massachusetts,  in  the  summer,  and  of  Green 
wich  Village,  New  York  City,  in  the  winter  —  since  1915. 
This  organization  has  been  one  of  the  most  ambitious  of  the 
Little  Theatres  of  America,  giving  only  original  productions 
of  new  American  plays.  It  has  lived  through  the  War,  and 
has  completed  (1918-1919)  its  most  substantial  season,  giving 
six  different  bills,  each  for  an  entire  week. 

SUSAN  GLASPELL 

Miss  SUSAN  GLASPELL  (MRS.  GEORGE  CRAM  COOK) 
was  born  in  Davenport,  Iowa,  in  1882.  She  studied  at 
Drake  University,  Iowa,  where  she  received  the  degree  of 
Ph.B.  After  taking  post-graduate  work  at  the  University 


300  SUPPRESSED  DESIRES 

of  Chicago,  she  became  State  House  and  Legislative  Re 
porter  of  The  News  and  the  Capital,  Des  Moines,  Iowa. 

She  has  contributed  several  stories  to  various  magazines. 
Her  novels  are:  "The  Glory  of  the  Conquered",  "The 
Visioning",  "Lifted  Masks",  and  "Fidelity." 

She  has  interested  herself  in  the  Little  Theatre  movement, 
and  in  the  work  of  the  Provincetown  Players  especially.  All 
of  her  one-act  plays  have  been  produced  in  New  York  by 
this  organization.  They  are:  "Trifles",  "  Suppressed  De 
sires"  (in  collaboration  with  George  Cram  Cook),  "The 
People",  "Close  the  Book",  "The  Outside",  "Woman's 
Honor",  and  "Tickless  Time"  (in  collaboration  with  George 
Cram  Cook) .  She  has  written  one  three-act  play,  "  Bernice  ", 
which  has  also  been  produced  by  the  Provincetown  Players. 


SUPPRESSED  DESIRES 

A  FREUDIAN  COMEDY 


BY  GEORGE  CRAM  COOK  AND   SUSAN   GLASPELL 


"Suppressed  Desires"   was  originally   produced   by   the 
Provincetown  Players,  New  York  City. 

Original  Cast 

HENRIETTA  BREWSTER Susan  Glaspell 

STEPHEN  BREWSTER George  Cram  Cook 

MABEL Mary  Pyne 


COPYRIGHT,  1917,  BY  FRANK  SHAY. 
All  rights  reserved. 

Reprinted  from  pamphlet  form  by  permission  of  and  special  arrangement  with 
Susan  Glaspell. 

Application  for  permission  to  produce  "Suppressed  Desires"  must  be  made  to 
George  Cram  Cook  or  Susan  Glaspell,  Provincetown,  Massachusetts. 


SUPPRESSED  DESIRES 

SCENE  I 

The  stage  represents  a  studio,  used  as  living  and  dining  room 
in  an  upper  story,  Washington  Square  South.  Through  an 
immense  north  window  in  the  back  wall  appear  tree  tops  and 
the  upper  part  of  the  Washington  Arch.  Beyond  it  you  look 
up  Fifth  Avenue.  There  are  rugs,  bookcases,  a  divan.  Near 
the  window  is  a  big  table,  loaded  at  one  end  with  serious-looking 
books  and  austere  scientific  periodicals.  At  the  other  end  are 
architect's  drawings,  blue  prints,  dividing  'compasses,  square, 
ruler,  etc.  There  is  a  door  in  each  side  wall.  Near  the  one 
to  the  spectator's  right  stands  a  costumer  with  hats  and  coats, 
masculine  and  feminine.  There  is  a  breakfast  table  set  for 
three,  but  only  two  seated  at  it  —  namely  Henrietta  and  Stephen 
Brewster.  As  the  curtains  withdraw  Steve  pushes  back  his 
coffee  cup  and  sits  dejected. 
HENRIETTA.  It  isn't  the  coffee,  Steve  dear.  There's  nothing 

the  matter  with  the  coffee.     There's  something  the  matter 

with  you. 

STEVE  (doggedly).  There  may  be  something  the  matter  with 
my  stomach. 

HENRIETTA  (scornfully) .  Your  stomach  !  The  trouble  is  not 
with  your  stomach  but  in  your  subconscious  mind. 

STEVE.     Subconscious  piffle ! 

[Takes  morning  paper  and  tries  to  read. 

HENRIETTA.  Steve,  you  never  used  to  be  so  disagreeable. 
You  certainly  have  got  some  sor.  of  a  complex.  You're 
all  inhibited.  You're  no  longer  open  to  new  ideas.  You 
won't  listen  to  a  word  about  psychoanalysis. 

STEVE.     A  word  !     I've  listened  to  volumes  ! 


304  SUPPRESSED  DESIRES 

HENRIETTA.     You've  ceased  to  be  creative  in  architecture 

—  your    work    isn't    going    well.      You're    not    sleeping 

well- 
STEVE.     How  can  I  sleep,  Henrietta,  when  you're  always 

waking  me  up  in  the  night  to  find  out  what  I'm  dreaming  ? 
HENRIETTA.     But  dreams  are  so  important,  Steve.     If  you'd 

tell  yours  to  Dr.  Russell  he'd  find  out  exactly  what's  wrong 

with  you. 

STEVE.     There's  nothing  wrong  with  me. 
HENRIETTA.     You  don't  even  talk  as  well  as  you  used  to. 
STEVE.     Talk  ?     I  can't  say  a  thing  without  you  looking  at 

me  in  that  dark  fashion  you  have  when  you're  on  the  trail 

of  a  complex. 
HENRIETTA.     This   very   irritability    indicates   that   you're 

suffering  from  some  suppressed  desire. 
STEVE.     I'm  suffering  from  a  suppressed  desire  for  a  little 

peace. 
HENRIETTA.     Dr.  Russell  is  doing  simply  wonderful  things 

with  nervous  cases.     \Yon't  you  go  to  him,  Steve  ? 
STEVE   (slamming  down  his  newspaper).     No  Henrietta,   I 

won't ! 

HENRIETTA.     But,  Stephen  — ! 
STEVE.     Tst !     I  hear  Mabel  coming.     Let's  not  be  at  each 

other's  throats  the  first  day  of  her  visit. 

[He  takes  out  cigarettes.     Enter  Mabel  from  door  left,  the 
side  opposite  Steve,  so  that  he  is  facing  her.     She  is  wearing  a 
rather  fussy  negligee  and  breakfast  cap  in  contrast  to  Henrietta, 
who  wears  "radical"  clothes.     Mabel  is  what  is  called  plump. 
MABEL.     Good  morning. 
HENRIETTA.     Oh,  here  you  are,  little  sister. 
STEVE.     Good  morning,  Mabel.      [Mabel  nods  to   him   and 

turns,  her  face  lighting  up,  to  Henrietta. 
HENRIETTA  (giving  Mabd  a  hug  as  she  leans  against  her). 

It's  so  good  to  have  you  here.     I  was  going  to  let  you 

sleep,  thinking  you'd  be  tired  after  the  long  trip.     Sit 

down.     There'll  be  fr«;sh  toast  in  a  minute  and  (rising 

from  her  chair)  will  you  have  — 


SUPPRESSED   DESIRES  305 

MABEL.  Oh,  I  ought  to  have  told  you,  Henrietta.  Don't 
get  anything  for  me.  I'm  not  eating  any  breakfast. 

HENRIETTA  (at  first  in  mere  surprise).  vNot  eating  breakfast  ? 
[She  sits  down,  then  leans  toward  Mabel  and  scrutinizes  her. 

STEVE  (half  to  himself) .     The  psychoanalytical  look ! 

HENRIETTA.     Mabel,  why  are  you  not  eating  breakfast? 

MABEL  (a  little  startled).  Why,  no  particular  reason.  I  just 
don't  care  much  for  breakfast,  and  they  say  it  keeps  down 

—  that  is,  it's  a  good  thing  to  go  without  it. 
HENRIETTA.     Don't  you  sleep  well  ?     Did  you  sleep  well  last 

night  ? 
MABEL.     Oh,  yes,  I  sleep  all  right.     Yes,  I  slept  fine  last 

night,  only  (laughing)  I  did  have  the  funniest  dream ! 
STEVE.     S  —  h  !  S  —  t ! 
HENRIETTA    (moving    closer) .     And    what    did    you    dream, 

Mabel? 
STEVE.     Look-^-here,  Mabel,  I  feel  it's  my  duty  to  put  you 

on.     Don't  tell  Henrietta  your  dreams.     If  you  do  she'll 

find  out  that  you  have  an  underground  desire  to  kill  your 

father  and  marry  your  mother  — 
HENRIETTA.     Don't  be  absurd,  Stephen  Brewster.     (Sweetly 

to  Mabel)     What  was  your  dream,  dear  ? 
MABEL  (laughing).     Well,  I  dreamed  I  was  a  hen. 
HENRIETTA.     A  hen  ? 
AMABEL.     Yes ;   arid  I  was  pushing  along  through  a  crowd  as  ' 

fast  as  I  could,  but  being  a  hen  I  couldn't  walk  very  fast 

—  it  was  like  having  a  tight  skirt,  you  know ;   and  there 
was  some  sort  of  creature  in  a  blue  cap  —  you  know  how 
mixed  up  dreams  are  —  and  it  kept  shouting  after  me  and 
saying,  "Step,  Hen!     Step,  Hen  !"  until  1  got  all  excited 
and  just  couldn't  move  at  all. 

HENRIETTA  (resting  chin  in  palm  and  peering).     You  say  you 

became  much  excited  ? 

MABLE  (laughing).     Oh,  yes;   I  was  in  a  terrible  state. 
HENRIF:  TA  (leaning  back,  murmurs).     This  is  significant. 
STEVE.     She  dreams  she's  a  hen.     She  is  told  to  step  lively. 

She*^n  comes  violently  agitated.     What  can  it  mean  ? 


306  SUPPRESSED  DESIRES 

HENRIETTA  (turning  impatiently  from  him).     Mabel,  do  you 

know  anything  about  psychoanalysis? 
MABEL  (feebly) .     Oh  —  not  much.     No  —  I  —  (brightening) 

It's  something  about  the  war,  isn't  it  ? 
STEVE.     Not  that  kind  of  war. 
MABEL  (abashed).     I  thought  it  might  be  the  name  of  a  new 

explosive. 
STEVE.     It  is. 
MABEL  (apologetically  to  Henrietta,  who  is  frowning).     You 

see,  Henrietta,  I  —  we  do  not  live  in  touch  with  intellectual 

things,  as  you  do.     Bob  being  a  dentist  —  somehow  — 

our  friends  — 
SJTE VE    (softly) .     Oh  to  be  a  dentist ! 

[Goes  to  window  and  stands  looking  out. 
HENRIETTA.     Don't  you  ever  see  anything  more  of  that 

editorial  writer  —  what  was  his  name  ? 
MABEL.     Lyman  Eggleston? 
HENRIETTA.     Yes,  Eggleston.     He  was  in  touch  with  things. 

Don't  you  see  him  ? 
MABEL.     Yes,  I  see  him  once  in  a  while.     Bob  doesn't  like 

him  very  well. 
HENRIETTA.     Your  husband  does  not  like  Lyman  Eggleston  ? 

(Mysteriously)     Mabel,    are    you    perfectly   happy   with 

your  husband  ? 
STEVE  (sharply).     Oh,  come  now,  Henrietta  —  that's  going 

a  little  strong ! 
HENRIETTA.     Are  you  perfectly  happy  with  him,  Mabel? 

[Steve  goes  to  work-table. 
MABEL.     Why  —  yes  —  I    guess    so.     Why  —  of    course    I 

am! 
HENRIETTA.     Are  you  happy?     Or  do  you  only  think  you 

are  ?     Or  do  you  only  think  you  ought  to  be  ? 
MABEL.     Why,  Henrietta,  I  don't  know  what  you  mean ! 
STEVE  (seizes  stack  of  books  and  magazines  and  dumps  them  on 

the   breakfast   table).     This   is   what   she   ro  ,ins, ,  Mabel. 

Psychoanalysis.     My  work-table  groans  with  it.     Books 

by  Freud,  the  new  Messiah ;  books  by  Jung,  the  -^ew  St. 


SUPPRESSED  DESIRES  307 

Paul ;     the    Psycho-analytical    Review  —  back    numbers 
two-fifty  per. 

MABEL.     But  what's  it  all  about  ? 

STEVE.  All  about  your  sub-un-non-conscious  mind  and  de 
sires  you  know  not  of.  They  may  be  doing  you  a  great 
deal  of  harm.  You  may  go  crazy  with  them.  Oh,  yes ! 
People  are  doing  it  right  and  left.  Your  dreaming  you're 
a  hen  —  ' — 
[Shakes  his  head  darkly. 

HENRIETTA.     Any  fool  can  ridicule  anything. 

MABEL  (hastily,  to  avert  a  quarrel).  But  what  do  you  say  it 
is,  Henrietta? 

STEVE  (looking  at  his  watch).  Oh,  if  Henrietta's  going  to 
start  that ! 

[He  goes  to  his  work-table,  and    during    Henrietta's    next 
speech  settles  himself  and  sharpens  a  lead  pencil. 

HENRIETTA.  It's  like  this,  Mabel.  You  want  something. 
You  think  you  can't  have  it.  You  think  it's  wrong.  So 
you  try  to  think  you  don't  want  it.  Your  mind  protects 
you  —  avoids  pain  —  by  refusing  to  think  the  forbidden 
thing.  But  it's  there  just  the  same.  It  stays  there  shut 
up  in  your  unconscious  mind,  and  it  festers. 

STEVE.     Sort  of  an  ingrowing  mental  toenail. 

HENRIETTA.  Precisely.  The  forbidden  impulse  is  there  full 
of  energy  which  has  simply  got  to  do  something.  It 
breaks  into  your  consciousness  in  disguise,  masks  itself  in 
dreams,  makes  all  sorts  of  trouble.  In  extreme  cases  it 
drives  you  insane. 

MABEL  (with  a  gesture  of  horror) .     Oh  ! 

HENRIETTA  (reassuringly) .  But  psychoanalysis  has  found  out 
how  to  save  us  from  that.  It  brings  into  consciousness 
the  suppressed  desire  that  was  making  all  the  trouble. 
Psychoanalysis  is  simply  the  latest  scientific  method  of 
preventing  and  curing  insanity. 

STEVE  (from  his  table).  It  is  also  the  latest  scientific  method 
of  separating  families. 

HENRIETTA  (mildly).     Families  that  ought  to  be  separated 


308  SUPPRESSED  DESffiES 

STEVE.  The  D wights,  for  instance.  You  must  have  met 
them,  Mabel,  when  you  were  here  before.  Helen  was 
living,  apparently,  in  peace  and  happiness  with  good  old 
Joe.  Well  —  she  went  to  this  psychoanalyzer  —  she  was 
"psyched*',  and  biff  !  —  bang !  —  home  she  comes  with  an 
unsuppressed  desire  to  leave  her  husband. 
[He  starts  work,  drawing  lines  on  a  drawing  board  with  a  T- 
square. 

MABEL.  How  terrible !  Yes,  I  remember  Helen  Dwight. 
But  —  but  did  she  have  such  a  desire  ? 

STEVE.     First  she'd  known  of  it.    * 

MABEL.     And  she  left  him  ? 

HENRIETTA  (coolly) .     Yes,  she  did.' 

MABEL.     Wasn't  he  good  to  her  ? 

HENRIETTA.     Why  yes,  good  enough. 

MABEL.     Wasn't  he  kind  to  her  ! 

HENRIETTA.     Oh,  yes  —  kind  to  her. 

MABEL.     And  she  left  her  good  kind  husband  —  ! 

HENRIETTA.  Oh,  Mabel!  'Left  her  good,  kind  husband!' 
How  naive  —  forgive  me,  dear,  but  how  bourgeoise  you 
are !  She  came  to  know  herself.  And  she  had  the  cour 
age ! 

MABEL.  I  may  be  very  naive  and  —  bourgeoise  —  but  I 
don't  see  the  good  of  a  new  science  that  breaks  up  homes. 
[Steve  clap  hands,  applauding. 

STEVE.  In  enlightening  Mabel,  we  mustn't  neglect  to  men 
tion  the  case  of  Art  Holden's  private  secretary,  Mary 
Snow,  who  has  just  been  informed  of  her  suppressed  desire 
for  her  employer. 

MABEL.  Why,  I  think  it  is  terrible,  Henrietta  !  It  would  be 
better  if  we  didn't  know  such  things  about  ourselves. 

HENRIETTA.     No,  Mabel,  that  is  the  old  way. 

MABEL.     But  —  but  her  employer  ?     Is  he  married  ? 

STEVE  (grunts).     Wife  and  four  children. 

MABEL.  Well,  then,  what  good  does  it  do  the  girl  to  be  told 
she  has  a  desire  for  him?  There's  nothing  that  can  be 
done  about  it. 


SUPPRESSED   DESIRES  309 

HENRIETTA.  Old  institutions  will  have  to  be  reshaped  so 
that  something  can  be  done  in  such  cases.  It  happens, 
Mabel,  that  this  suppressed  desire  was  on  the  point  of 
landing  Mary  Snow  in  the  insane  asylum.  Are  you  so 
tight-minded  that  you VI  rather  have  her  in  the  insane 
asylum  than  break  the  conventions? 
BEL.  But  —  but  have  people  always  had  these  awful 
suppressed  desires  ? 

HENRIETTA.       Always. 

STEVE.     But  they've  just  been  discovered. 

HENRIETTA.  The  harm  they  do  has  just  been  discovered. 
And  free,  sane  people  must  face  the  fact  that  they  have  to 
be  dealt  with. 

MABEL  (stoutly).  I  don't  believe  they  have  them  in  Chicago. 

/HENRIETTA   (business  of  giving  Mabel  up).     People   "have 

them"   wherever  the  living   Libido  —  the   center  of  the 

"soulV  energy  —  is  in  conflict  with  petrified  moral  codes. 

That  means  everywhere  in  civilization.     Psychoanalysis  — 

STEVE.     Good  God  !     I've  got  the  roof  in  the  cellar  ! 

HENRIETTA.     The  roof  in  the  cellar  ! 

STEVE  (holding  plan  at  arm's  length).  That's  what  psycho 
analysis  does ! 

HENRIETTA.  That's  what  psychoanalysis  could  un-do.  Is 
it  any  wonder  I'm  concerned  about  Steve  ?  He  dreamed 
the  other  night  that  the  walls  of  bib  room  melted  away 
and  he  found  himself  alone  in  a  forest.  Don't  you  see  how 
significant  it  is  for  an  architect  to  have  walls  slip  away  from 
him  ?  It  symbolizes  his  loss  of  grip  in  his  work.  There's 
some  suppressed  desire  — 

STEVE  (hurling  his  ruined  plan  viciously  to  the  floor) .  Sup 
pressed  hell ! 

HENRIETTA.     You  speak  more  truly  than  you  know.     It  is 

through  suppressions  that  hells  are  formed  in  us. 
AMABEL  (looking  at  Steve,  who  is  tearing  his  hair).     Don't  you 
think  it  would  be  a  good  thing,  Henrietta,  if  we  went  some 
where  else?     (They  rise  and  begin  to  pick  up  the  dishes. 
Mabel  drops  a  plate  which  breaks.     Henrietta  draws  up  short 


310  SUPPRESSED  DESIRES 

and  looks  at  her  —  the  psychoanalytic  look)     I'm  sorry, 

Henrietta.     One  of  the  Spode  plates,  too.         (Surprised 

and  resentful  as  Henrietta  continues  to  peer  at  her)    Don't 

take  it  so  to  heart,  Henrietta. 
HENRIETTA.     I  can't  help  taking  it  to  heart. 
MABEL.     I'll  get  you  another.     (Pause.     More  sharply  as 

Henrietta  does  not  answer)     I  said  I'll  get  you  another  plate, 

Henrietta. 

HENRIETTA.     It's  not  the  plate. 
MABEL.     For  heaven's  sake,  what  is  it  then  ? 
HENRIETTA.     It's  the  significant  little  false  movement  that 

made  you  drop  it. 
MABEL.     Well,  I  suppose  every  one  makes  a  false  movement 

once  in  a  while. 
HENRIETTA.     Yes,  Mabel,  but  these  false  movements  all  mean 

something. 
MABEL  (about  to  cry).     I  don't  think  that's  very  nice!     It 

was  just  because  I  happened  to  think  of  that  Mabel  Snow 

you  were  talking  about  — 
HENRIETTA.     Mabel  Snow ! 

MABEL.     Snow  —  Snow  —  well,  what  was  her  name,  then  ? 
HENRIETTA.     Her  name  is  Mary.     You  substituted  your  own 

name  for  hers. 
MABEL.     Well,  Mary  Snow,  then;    Mary  Snow.     I  never 

heard  her  name  but  once.     I  don't  see  anything  to  make 

such  a  fuss  about. 
HENRIETTA   (gently) .     Mabel  dear  —  mistakes  like  that  in 

names  — 
MABEL  (desperately).     They  don't  mean  something,  too,  do 

they? 

HENRIETTA  (gently).     I  am  sorry,  dear,  but  they  do. 
MABEL.     But  I  am  always  doing  that  I 
HENRIETTA  (after  a  start  of  horror).     My  poor  little  sister, 

tell  me  all  abojut  it. 
MABEL.  About  what  ? 
HENRIETTA.  About  your  not  being  happy.  About  your 

longing  for  another  sort  of  life. 


SUPPRESSED  DESIRES  311 

MABEL.     But  I  dont. 

HENRIETTA.  Ah,  I  understand  these  things,  dear.  You  feel 
Bob  is  limiting  you  to  a  life  which  you  do  not  feel  free  — 

MABEL.     Henrietta  !     When  did  I  ever  say  such  a  thing  ? 

HENRIETTA.  You  said  you  are  not  in  touch  with  things  in 
tellectual.  You  showed  your  feeling  that  it  is  Bob's  pro 
fession  —  that  has  engendered  a  resentment  which  has 
colored  your  whole  life  with  him. 

MABEL.     Why  —  Henrietta  !  S^ 

HENRIETTA.  Don't  be  afraid  of  me,  little  sister.  There's 
nothing  can  shock  me  or  turn  me  from  you.  I  am  not 
like  that.  I  wanted  you  to  come  for  this  visit  because  I 
had  a  feeling  that  you  needed  more  from  life  than  you 
were  getting.  No  one  of  these  things  I  have  seen  would 
excite  my  suspicion.  It's  the  combination.  You  don't 
eat  breakfast ;  you  make  false  moves  ;  you  substitute  your 
own  name  for  the  name  of  another  whose  love  is  misdirected, 
You're  nervous ;  you  look  queer ;  in  your  eyes  there's  a 
frightened  look  that  is  most  unlike  you.  And  this  dream. 
A  hen  —  come  with  me  this  afternoon  to  Dr.  Russell ! 
Your  whole  life  may  be  at  stake,  Mabel. 

MABEL  (gasping) .  Henrietta,  I  —  you  —  you  always  were 
the  smartest  in  the  family,  and  all  that,  but  —  this  is 
terrible !  I  don't  think  we  ought  to  think  such  things, 
and  (brightening)  Why,  I'll  tell  you  why  I  dreamed  I 
was  a  hen.  It  was  because  last  night,  telling  about  that 
time  in  Chicago,  you  said  I  was  as  mad  as  a  wet  hen. 

HENRIETTA  (superior).     Did  you  dream  you  were  a  wet  hen? 

MABEL  (forced  to  admit  it) .     No. 

HENRIETTA.  No.  You  dreamed  you  were  a  dry  hen.  And 
why,  being  a  hen,  were  you  urged  to  step  ? 

MABEL.  Maybe  it's  because  when  I  am  getting  on  a  street 
car  it  always  irritates  me  to  have  them  call  "Step  lively." 

HENRIETTA.    No,  Mabel,  that  is  only  a  child's  view  of  it  — 
if  you  will  forgive  me.     You  see  merely  the  elements  used 
in  the  dream.     You  do  not  see  into  the  dream ;    you  do 
not  see  its  meaning.     This  dream  of  the  hen  — 


312  SUPPRESSED   DESIRES 

STEVE.  Hen  —  hen  —  wet  hen  —  dry  hen  —  mad  hen  ! 
(Jumps  up  in  a  rage)  Let  me  out  of  this  ! 

HENRIETTA    (hastily  picking   up  dishes,   speaks  soothingly). 
Just  a  minute,  dear,  and  we'll  have  things  so  you  can  work 
.in  quiet.     Mabel  and  I  are  going  to  sit  in  my  room.     [She 
goes  out  with  both  hands  full  of  dishes. 

STEVE  (seizing  hat  and  coat  from  the  costumer).  I'm  going 
to  be  psychoanalyzed.  I'm  going  now !  I'm  going 
straight  to  that  infallible  doctor  of  hers  —  that  priest  of 
this  new  religion.  If  he's  got  honesty  enough  to  tell  Hen 
rietta  there's  nothing  the  matter  with  my  unconscious 
mind,  perhaps  I  can  be  let  alone  about  it,  and  then  I  will 
be  all  right.  (From  the  door  in  a  low  voice)  Don't  tell 
Henrietta  I'm  going.  It  might  take  weeks,  and  I  couldn't 
stand  all  the  talk. 
[Exit  desperately.  Enter  Henrietta. 

HENRIETTA.  Where's  Steve?  Gone?  (With  hopeless  ges 
ture)  You  see  how  impatient  he  is  —  how  unlike  himself  I 
I  tell  you,  Mabel,  I  am  nearly  distracted  about  Steve. 

MABEL.     I  think  he's  a  little  distracted,  too. 

HENRIETTA.  Well,  if  he's  gone  —  you  might  as  well  stay 
here.  I  have  a  committee  meeting  at  the  book-shop,  and 
will  have  to  leave  you  to  yourself  for  an  hour  or  two.  (As 
she  puts  her  hat  on,  her  eye,  lighting  up  almost  carnivorously, 
falls  on  an  enormous  volume  on  the  floor  beside  the  work  table. 
The  book  has  been  half  hidden  from  the  audience  by  the  waste- 
basket.  She  picks  it  up  and  carries  it  around  the  table 
toward  Mabel)  Here,  dear,  is  one  of  the  simplest  state 
ments  of  psychoanalysis.  You  just  read  this  and  then 
we  can  talk  more  intelligently.  (Mabel  takes 'volume  and 
staggers  back  under  its  weight  to  chair  rear  center.  Henrietta 
goes  to  outer  door,  stops  and  asks  abruptly)  How  old  is 
Lyman  Eggleston? 

MABLE  (promptly).  He  isn't  forty  yet.  Why,  what  made 
you  ask  that,  Henrietta? 

[As  she  turns  her  head  to  look  at  Henrietta  her  hands  move 
toward  the  upper  corners  of  the  book  balanced  on  her  knees. 


SUPPRESSED  DESIRES  313 

HENRIETTA.     Oh,  nothing.     Au  revoir. 

(Exit. 

Mabel  stares  at  the  ceiling.  The  book  slides  to  the  floor. 
She  starts;  looks  at  the  book,  then  at  the  broken  plate  on  the 
table)  The  plate!  The  book!  (She  lifts  her  eyes,  leans 
forward  elbow  on  knee,  chin  on  knuckles  and  plaintively  queries) 
Am  I  unhappy  ? 

CURTAIN 


SCENE  II 

The  stage  is  set  as  in  Scene  7,  except  that  the  breakfast  table 
has  been  removed  or  set  back  against  the  wall.     During  the  first 
few  minutes  the  dusk  of  a  winter  afternoon  deepens.     Out  of 
the  darkness  spring  rows  of  double  street-lights  almost  meeting 
in  the  distance.     Henrietta  is  disclosed  at  the  psychoanalytical 
end  of  Steve's   work-table.     Surrounded   by   open   books   and 
periodicals  she  is  writing.     Steve  enters  briskly. 
STEVE.     What  are  you  doing,  my  dear  ? 
HENRIETTA.     My  paper  for  the  Liberal  Club. 
STEVE.     Your  paper  on  —  ? 

IIP:XRIETTA.     On  a  subject  which  does  not  have  your  sympa- 
"  thy. 

STEVE.     Oh,  I'm  not  sure  I'm  wholly  out  of  sympathy  with 

psychoanalysis,    Henrietta.     You    worked  it  so  hard.     I 

couldn't  even  take  a  bath  without  its  meaning  something. 

HENRIETTA    (loftily).     I    talked    it    because    I    knew    you 

needed  it. 
STEVE.     You  haven't  said  much  about  it  these  last  two 

weeks.     Uh  —  your  faith  in  it  hasn't  weakened  any  ? 
HENRIETTA.     Weakened?     It's   grown   stronger   with   each 
new  thing  I've  come  to  know.     And  Mabel.     She  is  with 
Dr.  Russell  now.     Dr..  Russell  is  wonderful.     From  what 
Mabel  tells  me  I  believe  his  analysis  is  going  to  prove  that 
I  was  right.     To-day  I  discovered  a  remarkable  confirma 
tion  of  my  theory  in  the  hen-dream. 
STEVE.     What  is  your  theory  ? 


314  SUPPRESSED  DESIRES 

HENRIETTA.  Well,  you  know  about  Lyman  Eggleston.  I've 
wondered  about  him.  I've  never  seen  him,  but  I  know 
he's  less  bourgeois  than  Mabel's  other  friends  —  more 
intellectual  —  and  (significantly)  she  doesn't  see  much  of 
him  because  Bob  doesn't  like  him. 

STEVE.     But  what's  the  confirmation  ? 

HENRIETTA.     To-day  I  noticed  the  first  syllable  of  his  name. 

STEVE.     Ly  ? 

HENRIETTA.     No — egg.     (Patiently]  Mabel  dreamed  she  was 

j  ."^  a  hen.    (Steve  laughs)    You  wouldn't  laugh  if  you  knew  how 

important  names  are  in  interpreting  dreams.     Freud  is  full 

of  just  such  cases  in  which  a  whole  hidden  complex  is 

revealed  by  a  single  significant  syllable  —  like  this  egg. 

STEVE.  Doesn't  the  traditional  relation  of  hen  and  egg  sug 
gest  rather  a  maternal  feeling? 

HENRIETTA.  There  is  something  maternal  in  Mabel's  love 
of  course,  but  that's  only  one  element. 

STEVE.  Well,  suppose  Mabel  hasn't  a  suppressed  desire  to 
be  this  gentleman's  mother,  but  his  beloved.  What's  to 
be  done  about  it?  What  about  Bob?  Don't  you  think 
it's  going  to  be  a  little  rough  on  him  ? 

HENRIETTA.  That  can't  be  helped.  Bob,  like  every  one 
else,  must  face  the  facts  of  life.  If  Dr.  Russell  should 
arrive  independently  at  this  same  interpretation  I  shall 
not  hesitate  to  advise  Mabel  to  leave  her  present  hus 
band. 

STEVE.  Um  —  um!  (The  lights  go  up  on  Fifth  Avenue. 
Steve  goes  to  the  ivindow  and  looks  out)  How  long  is  it  we've 
lived  here,  Henrietta  ? 

HENRIETTA.     Why,  this  is  the  third  year,  Steve. 

STEVE.  I  —  we  —  one  would  miss  this  view  if  one  went 
away,  wouldn't  one  ? 

HENRIETTA.  How  strangely  you  speak!  Oh,  Stephen,  I 
wish  you'd  go  to  Dr.  Russell.  Don't  think  my  fears  have 
abated  because  I've  been  able  to  restrain  myself.  I  had 
to  on  account  of  Mabel.  But  now,  dear  — won't  you 
go? 


SUPPRESSED   DESIRES  315 

STEVE.  I  —  (He  breaks  off,  turns  on  the  light,  then  comes  and 
sits  beside  Henrietta)  How  long  have  we  been  married, 
Henrietta  ? 

HENRIETTA.     Stephen,  I  don't  understand  you !     You  must 

~^go  to  Dr.  Russell. 

STEVE.     I  have  gone. 

HENRIETTA.       You what  ? 

"STEVE  (jauntily).     Yes,  Henrietta,  I've  been  psyched. 
HENRIETTA.     You  went  to  Dr.  Russell  ? 
STEVE.     The  same. 
HENRIETTA.     And  what  did  he  say  ? 
STEVE.     He  said  —  I  —  I  was  a  little  surprised  by  what  he 

said,  Henrietta. 

HENRIETTA  (breathlessly).     Of  course  —  one  can  so  seldom 
"  anticipate.     But    tell    me  —  your    dream,    Stephen  ?     It 

means  —  ? 
STEVE.     It  means  —  I  was  considerably  surprised  by  what  it 

means. 

HENRIETTA.     Don't  be  so  exasperating ! 
STEVE.     It  means  —  you  really  want  to  know,  Henrietta  ? 
HENRIETTA.     Stephen,  you'll  drive  me  mad  ! 
STEVE.     He  said  —  of  course  he  may  be  wrong  in  what  he  said. 
HENRIETTA.     He  isn't  wrong.     Tell  me  ! 
STEVE.     He  said  my  dream  of  the  walls  receding  and  leaving  £ 

me  alone  in  a  forest  indicates  a  suppressed  desire  — 

HENRIETTA.       Yes VCS  ! 

STEVE.     To  be  freed  from  — 

HENRIETTA.     Yes  —  freed  from  —  ? 

STEVE.     Marriage. 

HENRIETTA  (Crumples.     Stares).     Marriage! 

STEVE.     He  —  he  may  be  mistaken,  you  know. 

HENRIETTA.     May  be  mistaken  ! 

STEVE.  I  —  well,  of  course,  I  hadn't  taken  any  stock  in  it 
myself.  It  was  only  your  great  confidence  — 

HENRIETTA.  Stephen,  are  you  telling  me  that  Dr.  Russell 
—  Dr.  A.  E.  Russell  — told  you  this?  (Steve  nods) 
Told  you  you  have  a  suppressed  desire  to  separate  from  me  ? 


316  SUPPRESSED  DESIRES 

STEVE.     That's  what  he  said. 

HENRIETTA.     Did  he  know  who  you  were? 

STEVE.     Yes. 

HENRIETTA.     That  you  were  married  to  me  ? 

STEVE.     Yes,  he  knew  that. 

HENRIETTA.     And  he  told  you  to  leave  me  ? 

STEVE.     It  seems  he  must  be  wrong,  Henrietta. 

HENRIETTA  (rising).  And  I've  sent  him  more  patients —  ! 
(Catches  herself  and  resumes  coldly)  What  reason  did  he 
give  for  this  analysis  ? 

STEVE.  He  says  the  confining  walls  are  a  symbol  of  my 
feeling  about  marriage  and  that  their  fading  away  is  a 
wish-fulfill  ment . 

HENRIETTA  (gulping) .  Well,  is  it  ?  Do  you  want  our  mar 
riage  to  end  ? 

STEVE.  Well,  it  was  a  great  surprise  to  me  that  I  did,  Hen 
rietta.  You  see  I  hadn't  known  what  Was  in  my  un 
conscious  mind. 

HENRIETTA  (flaming).  What  did  you  tell  Dr.  Russell  about 
me  to  make  him  think  you  weren't  happy  ? 

STEVE.  I  never  told  him  a  thing,  Henrietta.  He  got  it  all 
from  his  confounded  clever  inferences.  I  —  I  tried  to 
refute  them,  but  he  said  that  was  only  part  of  my  self- 
protective  lying. 

HENRIETTA.  And  that's  why  you  were  so  —  happy  —  when 
you  came  in  just  now ! 

STEVE.  Why,  Henrietta,  how  can  you  say  such  a  thing? 
I  was  sad.  Didn't  I  speak  sadly  of  —  of  the  view  ?  Didn't 
I  ask  how  long  we  had  been  married  ? 

HENRIETTA  (rising).  Stephen  Brewster,  have  you  no  sense 
of  the  seriousness  of  this  ?  Dr.  Russell  doesn't  know  what 
our  marriage  has  been.  You  do.  You  should  have  laughed 
him  down  !  Confined  —  in  life  with  me  ?  Did  you  tell 
him  that  I  believe  in  freedom  ? 

STEVE.  I  very  emphatically  told  him  that  his  results  were 
a  great  surprise  to  me. 

HENRIETTA.     But  you  accepted  them. 


SUPPRESSED  DESIRES  317 

STEVE.  Oh,  not  at  all.  I  merely  couldn't  refute  his  argu 
ments.  I'm  not  a  psychologist.  I  came  home  to  talk  it 
over  with  you.  You  being  a  disciple  of  psychoanalysis  — 

HENRIETTA.     If  you  are  going,  I  wish  you  would  go  to-night ! 

"STEVE.  Oh,  my  dear !  I  —  surely  I  couldn't  do  that ! 
Think  of  my  feelings.  And  my  laundry  hasn't  come  home. 

HENRIETTA.  I  ask  you  to  go  to-night.  Some  women  would 
falter  at  this,  Steve,  but  I  am  not  such  a  woman.  I 
leave  you  free.  I  do  not  repudiate  psychoanalysis,  I  say 
again  that  it  has  done  great  things.  It  has  also  made 
mistakes,  of  course.  But  since  you  accept  this  analysis  — 
(She  sits  down  and  pretends  to  begin  work)  I  have  to 
finish  this  paper.  I  wish  you  would  leave  me. 

STEVE  (scratches  his  head,  goes  to  the  inner  door).  I'm  sorry, 
Henrietta,  about  my  unconscious  mind. 
[Exit.  Henrietta's  face  betrays  her  outraged  state  of  mind 
—  disconcerted,  resentful,  trying,  to  pull  herself  together.  She 
attains  an  air  of  bravely  bearing  an  outrageous  thing.  Mabel 
enters  in  great  excitement. 

MABEL  (breathless).  Henrietta,  I'm  so  glad  you're  here. 
And  alone?  (Looks  toward  the  inner  door)  Are  you 
alone,  Henrietta  ? 

HENRIETTA  (with  reproving  dignity).     Very  much  so. 

MABEL  (rushing  to  her) .     Henrietta,  he's  found  it ! 

HENRIETTA  (aloof).     .Who  has  found  what? 

MABEL.  Who  has  found  what?  Dr.  Russell  has  found  my 
suppressed  desire. 

HENRIETTA.     That  is  interesting. 

MABEL.  He  finished  with  me  tr-day  —  he  got  hold  of  my 
complex  —  in  the  '  iost  amazing  way !  But,  oh,  Hen 
rietta  —  it  is  so  tf  oie  ! 

HENRIETTA.  Do  (  -am  yourself,  Mabel.  Surely  there's  no 
occasion  for  all  this  agitation. 

MABEL.     B.'t  there  is!     And  when  you  think  of  the  lives 


that  are  *v 
in  order  ;'g 
me  frorqn 


'ected  —  the  readjustments  that  must  be  made 
bring  the  suppressed  hell  out  of  me  and  save 
ie  insane  asylum  —  ! 


318  SUPPRESSED  DESIRES 

HENRIETTA.     The  insane  asylum  ! 

MABEL.  You  said  that's  where  these  complexes  brought 
people  ? 

HENRIETTA.     What  did  the  doctor  tell  you,  Mabel  ? 

MABEL.  Oh,  I  don't  know  how  I  can  tell  you  —  it  is  so  awful 
—  so  unbelievable. 

HENRIETTA.  I  rather  have  my  hand  in  at  hearing  the  un 
believable. 

MABEL.  Henrietta,  who  would  ever  have  thought  it  ?  How 
can  it  be  true  ?  But  the  doctor  is  perfectly  certain  that 
I  have  a  suppressed  desire  for  —  [Looks  at  Henrietta  unable 
to  go  on. 

HENRIETTA.  Oh,  go  on,  Mabel.  I'm  not  unprepared  for 
what  you  have  to  say. 

MABEL.     Not  unprepared  ?   You  mean  you  have  suspected  it  ? 

HENRIETTA.     From  the  first.     It's  been  my  theory  all  along. 

MABEL.  But,  Henrietta,  I  didn't  know  myself  that  I  had 
this  secret  desire  £or  Stephen. 

HENRIETTA  (jumps  up) .     Stephen  ! 

MABEL.     My  brother-in-law!     My  own  sister's  husband! 

HENRIETTA.     You  have  a  suppressed  desire  for  Stephen  ! 

MABEL.     Oh,  Henrietta,  aren't  these  unconscious  selves  ter 
rible  ?     They  seem  so  unlike  us  ! 
y\^  HENRIETTA.     What  insane  thing  are  you  driving  at? 

MABEL  (blubbering).  Henrietta,  don't  you  use  that  word  to 
me.  I  don't  want  to  go  to  the  insane  asylum. 

HENRIETTA.     What  did  Dr.  Russell  say  ? 

MABEL.  Well,  you  see  —  oh,  it's  the  strangest  thing !  But 
you  know  the  voice  in  my  dream  that  called  "Step,  Hen !" 
Dr.  Russell  found  out  to-Jay  that  when  I  was  a  little  girl 
I  had  a  story-book  in  words  of  c  syllable  and  I  read  the 
name  Stephen  wrong.  I  used  tJ  <ad  it  S-t-e-p,  step, 
h-e-n,  hen.  (Dramatically)  Step  Hen  . '  Stephen.  (Enter 
Stephen,  his  head  bent  over  a  time-table)  Stephen  is  Step 
Hen! 

STEVE.     I  ?    Step  Hen  ! 


MABEL  (triumphantly).     S-t-e-p,  step,  H-e-n,  7  t 


Stephen ! 


SUPPRESSED  DESIRES  319 

HENRIETTA  (exploding).     Well,  what  if  Stephen  is  Step  Hen  ? 

(Scornfully)     Step  Hen  !     Step  Hen  !     For  that  ridiculous 

coincidence  — 
MABEL.     Coincidence!     But   it's   childish   to   look   at   the 

mere  elements  of  a  dream.     You  have  to  look  into  it  - 

you  have  to  see  what  it  means ! 
HENRIETTA.     On  account  of  that  trivial,  meaningless  play 

on  syllables  —  on  that  flimsy  basis  —  you  are  ready  - 

(wails)  O-h ! 

STEVE.     What    on   earth's    the    matter?     What   has   hap 
pened?     Suppose    I    am   Step    Hen?     What    about    it? 

What  does  it  mean  ? 
MABEL  (crying).     It  means  —  that  —  I  —  have  a  suppressed 

desire  for  you ! 
STEVE.     For  me!     The  deuce  you  have?     (Feebly)     What 

—  er  —  makes  you  think  so  ? 

MABEL.     Dr.  Russell  has  worked  it  out  scientifically. 
HENRIETTA.     Yes.     Through   the   amazing   discovery   that 

Step  Hen  equals  Stephen  ! 
MABEL  (tearfully).     Oh,  that  isn't  all  —  that  isn't  near  all. 

Henrietta  won't  give  me  a  chance  to  tell  it.     She'd  rather 

I'd  go  to  the  insane  asylum  than  be  unconventional. 

.  -if     \ 


^/HENRIETTA.     We'll  all  go  there  if  you  can't  control  yourself. 
We  are  still  waiting  for  some  rational  report. 


MABEL  (drying  her  eyes).  Oh,  there's  such  a  lot  about  names. 
(With  some  pride)  I  don't  see  how  I  ever  did  it.  It  all 
works  in  together.  I  dreamed  I  was  a  hen  because  that's 
the  first  syllable  of  #en-rietta's  name,  and  when  I  dreamed 
I  was  a  hen,  I  was  putting  myself  in  Henrietta's  place. 

HENRIETTA.     With  Stephen  ? 

MABEL.     With  Stephen. 

HENRIETTA  (outraged).  Oh!  (Turns  in  rage  upon  Stephen, 
who  is  fanning  himself  with  the  time-table)  What  are  you 
doing  with  that  time-table? 

STEVE.  Why  —  I  thought  —  you  were  so  keen  to  have  me 
go  to-night  —  I  thought  I'd  just  take  a  run  up  to  Canada, 
and  join  Billy  —  a  little  shooting  —  but  — 


320  SUPPRESSED  DESIRES 

MABEL.     But  there's  more  about  the  names. 

HENRIETTA.  Mabel,  have  you  thought  of  Bob  —  dear  old 
Bob  —  your  good,  kind  husband  ? 

MABEL.     Oh,  Henrietta,  "my  good,  kind  husband!" 

HENRIETTA.    Think  of  him,  Mabel,  out  there  alone  in  Chicago, 

'    working  his  head  off,  fixing  people's  teeth  for  you  ! 

MABEL.  Yes,  but  think  of  the  living  Libido  —  in  conflict 
with  petrified  moral  codes!  And  think  of  the  perfectly 
wonderful  way  the  names  all  prove  it.  Dr.  Russell  said 
he's  never  seen  anything  more  convicing.  Just  look  at 
Stephen's  last  name  —  Brewster.  I  dream  I'm  a  hen, 
and  the  name  Brewster  —  you  have  to  say  its  first  letter 
by  itself  —  and  then  the  hen,  that's  me,  she  says  to  him : 
"Stephen,  Be  Rooster!" 
[Henrietta  and  Stephen  both  collapse  on  chair  and  divan. 

MABEL.  I  think  it's  perfectly  wonderful !  Why,  if  it  wasn't 
for  psychoanalysis  you'd  never  find  out  how  wonderful 
your  own  mind  is  ! 

STEVE  (begins  to  chuckle).     Be  Rooster,  Stephen,  Be  Rooster ! 

HENRIETTA.     You  think  it's  funny,  do  you? 

STEVE.  Well,  what's  to  be  done  about  it?  Does  Mabel 
have  to  go  away  with  me  ? 

HENRIETTA.     Do  you  want  Mabel  to  go  away  with  you  ? 

STEVE.  Well,  but  Mabel  herself  —  her  complex  —  her  sup 
pressed  desire  —  ! 

HENRIETTA.  Mabel,  are  you  going  to  insist  on  going  away 
with  Stephen  ? 

MABEL.  I'd  rather  go  with  Stephen  than  go  to  the  insane 
asylum. 

HENRIETTA.  For  Heaven's  sake,  Mabel,  drop  that  insane 
asylum !  If  you  did  have  a  suppressed  desire  for  Stephen 
hidden  away  in  you  —  God  knows  it  isn't  hidden  now. 
Dr.  Russell  has  brought  it  into  your  consciousness  — 
with  a  vengeance.  That's  all  that's  necessary  to  break 
up  a  complex.  Psychoanalysis  doesn't  say  you  have  to 
gratify  every  suppressed  desire. 

STEVE  (softly).     Unless  it's  for  Lyman  Eggleston. 


SUPPRESSED   DESIRES  321 

HENRIETTA  (turning  on  him).  Well,  if  it  comes  to  that, 
Stephen  Brewster,  I'd  like  to  know  why  that  interpretation 
of  mine  isn't  as  good  as  this  one  ?  Step,  Hen  ! 

STEVE.  But  Be  Rooster  !  (He  pauses,  chuckling  to  himself) 
Step-Hen  B-rooster.  And  /Henrietta.  Pshaw,  my  dear, 
Doc  Russell's  got  you  beat  a  mile !  (He  turns  away  and 
chuckles)  Be  rooster ! 

MABEL.     What  has  Lyman  Eggleston  got  to  do  with  it  ? 

STEVE.  According  to  Henrietta,  you,  the  hen,  have  a  sup 
pressed  desire  for  E^leston,  the  egg. 

MABEL.  Henrietta,  I  think  that's  indecent  of  you !  He  is 
bald  as  an  egg  and  little  and  fat  —  the  idea  of  you  think 
ing  such  a  thing  of  me ! 

HENRIETTA.  Well,  Bob  isn't  little  and  bald  and  fat !  W 
don't  you  stick  to  your  own  husband  ?  (Turns  on  Stephen) 
What  if  Dr.  Russell's  interpretation  has  got  mine  "beat  a 
mile"  ?  (Resentful  look  at  him)  It  would  only  mean  that 
Mabel  doesn't  want  Eggleston  and  does  want  you.  Does 
that  mean  she  has  to  have  you  ? 

MABEL.     But  you  said  Mabel  Snow  - 

HENRIETTA.     Mary  Snow !     You're  not  as  much  like  her  as 
you  think  —  substituting  your  name  for  hers  !     The  cases 
are  entirely  different.     Oh,  I  wouldn't  have  believed  this 
of  you,  Mabel.     I  brought  you  here  for  a  pleas*   t  visit  - 
thought  you  needed  brightening  up  —  wanted  to  be  nice 
to  you  —  and  now  you  —  my  husband  —  you  insist  - 
[Begins  to  cry.     Makes  a  movement  which  brushes  to  the  floor 
some  sheets  from  the  psychoanalytical  table. 

STEVE    (with    solicitude}.     Careful,    dear.     Your    paper    on 
psychoanalysis ! 
[Gathers  up  sheets  and  offers  them  to  her. 

HENRIETTA  (cryi  d  }.  I  don't  want  my  paper  on  psychoanaly 
sis  !  I'm  siclv  of  psychoanalysis  ! 

STEVE  (eagerly).     Do  you  mean  that,  Henrietta? 

HENRIETTA.  Why  shouldn't  I  mean  it?  Look  at  all  I've 
done  for  psychoanalysis  —  and  —  what  has  psychoanalysis 
done  for  ne? 


322  SUPPRESSED   DESIRES 

STEVE.     Do  you  mean,  Henrietta,  that  you're  going  to  stop 

talking  psychoanalysis  ? 
HENRIETTA.     Why  shouldn't  I  stop  talking  it?     Haven't  I 

seen  what  it  does  to  people  ?     Mabel  has  gone  crazy  about 

psychoanalysis ! 

[At  the  word  "crazy"  Mabel  sinks  with  a  moan  into  the  arm 
chair  and  buries  her  face  in  her  hands. 
STEVE  (solemnly}.     Do  you  swear  never  to  wake  me  up  in 

the  night  to  find  out  what  I'm  dreaming  ? 
HENRIETTA.     Dream  what  you  please  —  I  don't  care  what 

you're  dreaming. 
STEVE.     Will  you  clear  off  my  work-table  so  the  Journal  of 

Morbid  Psychology  doesn't  stare  me  in  the  face  when  I'm 

trying  to  plan  a  house? 
HENRIETTA  (pushing  a  stack  of  periodicals  off  the  table) .     I'll 

burn  the  Journal  of  Morbid  Psychology ! 
STEVE.     My  dear  Henrietta,  if  you're  going  to  separate  from 

psychoanalysis,  there's  no  reason  why  I  should  separate 

from  you. 

[They  embrace  ardently.     Mabel  lifts  her  head  and  looks  at 

them  woefully. 
AHBEL  (jumping  up  and  going  toward  them).     But  what  about 

rn  \?     What  am  I  to  do  with  my  suppressed  desire  ? 
STEVE  (i.  f*h  <me  arm  still  around  Henrietta,  gives  Mabel  a 

brotherly  hug).      Maucl,  /ou  just  keep  right  on  suppress 
ing  it. 

CURTAIN 


WHERE  BUT  IN  AMERICA 

OSCAR  M.   WOLFF 

MR.  OSCAR  M.  WOLFF  was  born  July  13,  1876.  He  is  a 
graduate  of  Cornell  University  and  of  Chicago  Law  School. 
During  the  war  he  was  connected  with  the  United  States 
Food  Administration  at  Washington.  Although  his  main 
interest  has  been  in  law,  which  he  has  practised  and  taught, 
he  has  done  a  large  amount  of  writing  and  editing.  He  has 
published  a  legal  textbook  and  a  number  of  articles  on  legal 
subjects,  both  in  legal  publications  and  in  magazines  of 
general  interest.  In  addition,  he  has  written  one  or  two 
stories,  and  three  plays:  "Where  But  in  America'*,  "The 
Claim  for  Exemption",  and  "The  Money  Lenders." 


WHERE   BUT  IN  AMERICA 


BY  OSCAE   M.   WOLFF 


"Where  But  in  America"  was  originally  produced  by  the 
Players'  Workshop  of  Chicago,  on  April  23,  1917. 

Original  Cast 

MRS.  ESPENHAYNE      .     .     .     .     .     .     Caroline  Kohl 

MR.  ESPENHAYNE George  Francis  Wolff 

HILDA  .  Helen  Cook 


Copyright,  1917,  by  Oscar  M.  Wolff. 

All  rights  reserved. 

Printed  originally  in  Smart  Set. 

Application  for  the  right  of  performing  "Where  But  in  America"  must  be  made 
to  Mr.  Oscar  Wolff,  105  West  Monroe  Street,  Chicago. 


WHERE   BUT  IN  AMERICA 

SCENE.     The  Espenhayne  dining  room. 

The  curtain  rises  on  the  Espenhayne  dining  room.     It  is 

furnished  with  modest  taste  and  refinement.     There  is  a  door, 

center,  leading  to  the  living  room,  and  a  swinging  door,  left, 

leading  to  the  kitchen. 

The  table  is  set,  and  Robert  and  Mollie  Espenhayne  are 

discovered  at  their  evening  meal.  They  are  educated,  well-bred, 

young  Americans.     Robert  is  a  pleasing,  energetic  business  man 

of  thirty;    Mollie  an  attractive  woman  of  twenty-five.     The 

bouillon  cups  are  before  them  as  the  curtain  rises. 

BOB.  Mollie,  I  heard  from  the  man  who  owns  that  house 
in  Kenilworth.  He  wants  to  sell  the  house.  He  won't 
rent. 

MOLLIE.  I  really  don't  care,  Bob.  That  house  was  too  far 
from  the  station  and  it  had  only  one  sleeping  porch  and 
you  know  I  want  white  enamelled  woodwork  in  the  bed 
rooms.  But,  Bob,  I've  been  terribly  stupid ! 

BOB.     How  so,  Mollie  ? 

MOLLIE.  You  remember  the  Russells  moved  to  Highland 
Park  last  spring? 

BOB.  Yes ;  Ed  Russell  rented  a  house  that  had  just  been 
built. 

MOLLIE.  A  perfectly  darling  little  house  !  And  Fanny  Rus 
sell  once  told  me  that  the  man  who  built  it  will  put  up  a 
house  for  any  one  who  will  take  a  five  year  lease.  And 
she  says  that  the  man  is  very  competent  and  they  are 
simply  delighted  with  their  place. 

BOB.     Why  don't  we  get  in  touch  with  the  man  ? 

MOLLIE.  Wasn't  it  stupid  of  me  not  to  think  about  it  ?  It 
just  flashed  into  my  mind  this  morning  and  I  sat  down  at 


328  WHERE  BUT  IN  AMERICA 

once  and  sent  a  special  delivery  letter  to  Fanny  Russell. 
I  asked  her  to  tell  me  his  name  at  once,  and  where  we  can 
find  him. 

BOB.  Good !  You  ought  to  have  an  answer  by  to-morrow 
or  Thursday  and  we'll  go  up  north  and  have  a  talk  with 
him  on  Saturday. 

MOLLIE  (with  enthusiasm) .  Wouldn't  it  be  wonderful  if  he'd 
build  just  what  we  want !  Fanny  Russell  says  every  de 
tail  of  their  house  is  perfect.  Even  the  garage ;  they  use 
it- 

BOB  (interrupting).  Mollie,  that's  the  one  thing  I'm  afraid 
of  about  the  North  Shore  plan.  I've  said  repeatedly  that 
I  don't  want  to  buy  a  car  for  another  year  or  two.  But, 
here  you  are,  talking  about  a  garage  already. 

MOLLIE.  But  you  didn't  let  me  finish  what  I  was  saying. 
The  Russells  have  fitted  up  their  garage  as  a  playroom  for 
the  children.  If  we  had  a  garage  we  could  do  the  same 
thing. 

BOB.  Well,  let's  keep  temptation  behind  us  and  not  even 
talk  to  the  man  about  a  garage.  If  we  move  up  north  it 
must  be  on  an  economy  basis  for  a  few  years ;  just  a  half 
way  step  between  the  apartment  and  the  house  we  used  to 
plan.  You  mustn't  get  your  heart  set  on  a  car. 

MOLLIE.  I  haven't  even  thought  of  one,  dear.  (Bob  and 
Mollie  have  now  both  finished  the  bouillon  course  and  lay 
down  their  spoons.  Reaching  out  her  hand  to  touch  the 
table  button  and  at  the  same  time  leaning  across  the  table 
and  speaking  very  impressively).  Bob,  I'm  about  to  ring 
for  Hilda ! 

BOB.     What  of  it  ? 

MOLLIE  (decidedly  and  with  a  touch  of  impatience).  You 
know  very  well,  what  of  it.  I  don't  want  Hilda  to  hear  us 
say  one  word  about  moving  away  from  the  South  Side ! 

BOB  (protesting) .     But  Mollie  — 

MOLLIE  (interrupting  hurriedly  and  holding  her  finger  to  her 
lips  in  warning) .     Psst ! 
(The  next  instant  Hilda  enters,   left.     She  is  a  tall,  blond 


WHERE   BUT  IN  AMERICA  329 

Swedish  girl,  about  twenty-five  years  old.  She  is  very  pretty 
and  carries  herself  well  and  looks  particularly  charming  in  a 
maid's  dress,  with  white  collars  and  cuffs  and  a  dainty  wait 
ress's  apron.  Every  detail  of  her  dress  is  immaculate. 
(Speaking  the  instant  that  Hilda  appears  and  talking 
very  rapidly  all  the  time  that  Hilda  remains  in  the  room. 
While  she  speaks  Mollie  watches  Hilda  rather  than  Robert, 
whom  she  pretends  to  be  addressing)  In  the  last  game 
Gert  Jones  was  my  partner.  It  was  frame  apiece  and  I 
dealt  and  I  bid  one  no  trump.  I  had  a  very  weak  no 
trump.  I'll  admit  that,  but  I  didn't  want  them  to  win  the 
rubber.  Mrs.  Stone  bid  two  spades  and  Gert  Jones  doubled 
her.  Mrs.  Green  passed  and  I  simply  couldn't  go  to  three 
of  anything.  Mrs.  Stone  played  two  spades,  doubled,  and 
she  made  them.  Of  course,  that  put  them  out  and  gave 
them  the  rubber.  I  think  that  was  a  very  foolish  double 
of  Gert  Jones  and  then  she  said  it  was  my  fault,  because  I 
bid  one  no  trump. 

[As  Mollie  begins  her  flow  of  words  Bob  first  looks  at  her  in 
open-mouthed  astonishment.  Then  as  he  gradually  compre 
hends  that  Mollie  is  merely  talking  against  time  he  too  turns 
his  eyes  to  Hilda  and  watches  her  closely  in  her  movements 
around  the  table.  Meanwhile  Hilda  moves  quietly  and  quickly 
and  pays  no  attention  to  anything  except  the  work  she  has  in 
hand.  She  carries  a  small  serving  tray  and,  as  Mollie  speaks, 
Hilda  first  takes  the  bouillon  cups  from  the  table,  then  brings 
the  carving-knife  and  fork  from  the  sideboard  and  places  them 
before  Robert  and  then,  with  the  empty  bouillon  cups,  exits 
left.  Bob  and  Mollie  are  both  watching  Hilda  as  she  goes 
out.  The  instant  the  door  swings  shut  behind  her,  Mollie  re 
laxes  with  a  sigh  and  Robert  leans  across  the  table  to  speak. 

BOB.  Mollie,  why  not  be  sensible  about  this  thing !  Have 
a  talk  with  Hilda  and  find  out  if  she  will  move  north 
with  us. 

MOLLIE.  That's  just  like  a  man  !  Then  we  might  not  find 
a  house  to  please  us  and  Hilda  would  be  dissatisfied  and 
suspicious.  She  might  even  leave.  (Thoughtfully)  Of 


330  WHERE   BUT  IN   AMERICA 

course,  I  must  speak  to  her  before  we  sign  a  lease,  because 
I  really  don't  know  what  I'd  do  if  Hilda  refuses  to  leave 
the  South  side.  (More  cheerfully)  But  there,  we  won't 
think  about  the  disagreeable  things  until  everything  else 
is  settled. 

BOB.     That's  good  American  doctrine. 

MOLLIE  (warningly  and  again  touching  her  finger  to  her  lips). 
Psst! 

(Hilda  enters,  left,  carrying  the  meat  plates,  with  a  heavy  nap 
kin  under  them.  Immediately  resuming  her  monologue)  I 
think  my  last  year's  hat  will  do  very  nicely.  You  know  it 
rained  all  last  summer  and  I  really  only  wore  the  hat  a  half 
a  dozen  times.  Perhaps  not  that  often.  I  can  make  a  few 
changes  on  it ;  put  on  some  new  ribbons  you  know,  and 
it  will  do  very  nicely  for  another  year.  You  remember 
that  hat,  don't  you,  dear  ?  (Bob  starts  to  answer,  but  Mollie 
rushes  right  on)  Of  course  you  do,  you  remember  you 
said  it  was  so  becoming.  That's  another  reason  why  I 
want  to  wear  it  this  summer. 

[Hilda,  meanwhile,  puts  the  plates  on  the  table  in  front  of  Bob 
and  goes  out,  left.  Mollie  at  once  stops  speaking. 

BOB  (holding  his  hands  over  the  plates  as  over  afire  and  rubbing 
them  together  in  genial  warmth) .  Ah,  the  good  hot  plates  ! 
She  never  forgets  them.  She  is  a  gem,  Mollie. 

MOLLIE  (in  great  self-satisfaction).  If  you  are  finally  con 
vinced  of  that,  after  three  years,  I  wish  you  would  be  a 
little  bit  more  careful  what  you  say  the  next  time  Hilda 
conies  in  the  room. 

BOB  (in  open-mouthed  astonishment) .     What ! 

MOLLIE.  Well,  I  don't  want  Hilda  to  think  we  are  making 
plans  behind  her  back. 

BOB  (reflectively).     "A  man's  home  is  his  castle."     (Pauses) 
It's  very  evident  that  the  Englishman  who  first  said  that 
didn't  keep  any  servants. 
[Telephone  bell  rings  off  stage. 

MOLLIE.      Answer  that,  Bob. 

BOB.     Won't  Hilda  answer  it  ? 


WHERE  BUT  IN  AMERICA  331 

MOLLIE  (standing  up  quickly  and  speaking  impatiently) .  Very 
well,  I  shall  answer  it  myself.  I  can't  ask  Hilda  to  run  to 
the  telephone  while  she  is  serving  the  meal. 

BOB  (sullenly,  as  he  gets  up) .     All  right !     All  right ! 

[Bob  exits,  center.  As  he  does  so  Hilda  appears  at  the  door, 
left,  hurrying  to  answer  the  telephone. 

MOLLIE.     Mr.  Espenhayne  will  answer  it,  Hilda. 

[Hilda  makes  the  slightest  possible  bow  of  acquiescence,  with 
draws  left,  and  in  a  moment  reappears  with  vegetable  dishes  and 
small  side  dishes  which  she  puts  before  Mrs.  Espenhayne. 
She  is  arranging  these  when  Bob  re-enters,  center. 

BOB.     Somebody  for  you,  Hilda. 

HILDA  (surprised) .     For  me  ?     0  !     But  I  cannot  answer  eet 
now.     Please  ask  the  party  to  call  later. 
[Hilda  speaks  excellent  English  but  with  some  Swedish  accent. 
The  noticeable  feature  of  her  speech  is  the  precision  and 
great  care  with  which  she  enunciates  every  syllable. 

MOLLIE.  Just  take  the  number  yourself,  Hilda,  and  tell  the 
party  you  will  call  back  after  dinner. 

HILDA.     Thank  you,  Messes  Aispenhayne. 

[Hilda  exits,  center.  Bob  stands  watching  Hilda,  as  she 
leaves  the  room,  and  then  turns  and  looks  at  Mollie  with  a 
bewildered  expression. 

BOB  (standing  at  his  chair).  But,  I  thought  Hilda  couldn't 
be  running  to  the  telephone  while  she  serves  the  dinner  ? 

MOLLIE.  But  this  call  is  for  Hilda,  herself.  That's  quite 
different,  you  see. 

BOB  (slowly  and  thoughtfully) .  O,  yes  !  Of  course ;  I  see  ! 
(Sits  down  in  his  chair)  That  is  —  I  don't  quite  see  ! 

MOLLIE  (immediately  leaning  across  the  table  and  speaking  in  a 
cautious  whisper) .     Do  you  know  who  it  is  ? 
(Bob  closes  his  lips  very  tightly  and  nods  yes  in  a  very  impor 
tant  manner.     In  the  same  whisper  and  very  impatiently) 
Who? 

BOB  (looking  around  the  room  as  if  to  see  if  anyone  is  in  hiding 
and  then  putting  his  hand  to  his  mouth  and  exaggerating  the 
whisper).  The  Terrible  Swede. 


332  WHERE   BUT  IN  AMERICA 

MOLLIE  (in  her  ordinary  tone  and  very  much  exasperated). 
Robert,  I've  told  you  a  hundred  times  that  you  shouldn't 
refer  to  —  to  —  the  man  in  that  way. 

BOB.  And  I've  told  you  a  hundred  times  to  ask  Hilda  his 
name.  If  I  knew  his  name  I'd  announce  him  with  as  much 
ceremony  as  if  he  were  the  Swedish  Ambassador. 

MOLLIE  (disgusted) .  Oh,  don't  try  to  be  funny !  Suppose 
some  day  Hilda  hears  you  speak  of  him  in  that  manner  ? 

BOB.  You  know  that's  mild  compared  to  what  you  think 
of  him.  Suppose  some  day  Hilda  learns  what  you  think 
of  him  ? 

MOLLIE.  I  think  very  well  of  him  and  you  know  it.  Of 
course,  I  dread  the  time  when  she  marries  him,  but  I 
wouldn't  for  the  world  have  her  think  that  we  speak  dis 
respectfully  of  her  or  her  friends. 

BOB.     "A  man's  home  is  his  castle." 

[Mollie' s  only  answer  is  a  gesture  of  impatience.  Mollie  and 
Bob  sit  back  in  their  chairs  to  await  Hilda's  return.  Both 
sit  with  fingers  interlaced,  hands  resting  on  the  edge  of  the 
table  in  the  attitude  of  school  children  at  attention.  A  long 
pause.  Mollie  unclasps  her  hands  and  shifts  uneasily.  Robert 
does  the  same.  Mollie,  seeing  this,  hastily  resumes  her  former 
attitude  of  quiet  waiting.  Robert,  however,  grows  increas 
ingly  restless.  His  restlessness  makes  Mollie  nervous  and 
she  watches  Robert,  and  when  he  is  not  observing  her,  she  darts 
quick,  anxious  glances  at  the  door,  center.  Bob  drains  and 
refills  his  glass. 

MOLLIE  (she  has  been  watching  Robert  and  every  time  he  shifts 
or  moves  she  unconsciously  does  the  same  and  finally  she 
breaks  out  nervously).  I  don't  understand  this  at  all! 
Isn't  today  Tuesday  ? 

BOB.     What  of  it  ? 

MOLLIE.  He  usually  calls  up  on  Wednesdays  and  comes  to 
see  her  on  Saturdays. 

BOB.  And  takes  her  to  the  theater  on  Thursdays  and  to 
dances  on  Sundays.  He's  merely  extending  his  line  of 
attack. 


WHERE   BUT  IN   AMERICA  333 

(Another  long  pause,  then  Bob  begins  to  experiment  to  learn 
whether  the  plates  are  still  hot.  He  gingerly  touches  the  edges 
of  the  upper  plate  in  two  or  three  places.  It  seems  safe  to 
handle.  He  takes  hold  of  upper  and  lower  plates  boldly, 
muttering,  as  he  does  so,  "Cold  as — "  Drops  the  plates 
with  a  clatter  and  a  smothered  oath.  Shakes  his  fingers  and 
blows  on  them.  Meanwhile  Mollie  is  sitting  very  rigid,  re 
garding  Bob  with  a  fixed  stare  and  beating  a  vigorous  tattoo 
on  the  table  cloth  with  her  fingers.  Bob  catches  her  eye  and 
cringes  under  her  gaze.  He  drains  and  refills  his  glass.  He 
studies  the  walls  and  the  ceiling  of  the  room,  meanwhile  still 
nursing  his  fingers.  Bob  steals  a  side-long  glance  at  Mollie. 
She  is  still  staring  at  him.  He  turns  to  his  water  goblet. 
Picks  it  up  and  holds  it  up  to  the  light.  He  rolls  the  stem 
between  his  fingers,  squinting  at  the  light  through  the  water. 
Reciting  slowly  as  he  continues  to  gaze  at  the  light)  Star 
light  !  Starbright !  Will  Hilda  talk  to  him  all  night ! 

MOLLIE  (in  utter  disgust).     Oh,  stop  that  singing. 

[Bob  puts  down  his  glass,  then  drinks  the  water  and  refills 
the  glass,  fie  then  turns  his  attention  to  the  silverware  and 
cutlery  before  him.  He  examines  it  critically,  then  lays  a  tea 
spoon  carefully  on  the  cloth  before  him,  and  attempts  the  trick 
of  picking  it  up  with  the  first  finger  in  the  bowl  and  the 
thumb  at  the  point  of  the  handle.  After  one  or  two  attempts 
the  spoon  shoots  on  the  floor,  far  behind  him.  Mollie  jumps 
at  the  noise.  Bob  turns  slowly  and  looks  at  the  spoon  with 
an  injured  air,  then  turns  back  to  Mollie  with  a  silly, 
vacuous  smile.  He  now  lays  all  the  remaining  cutlery  in  a 
straight  row  before  him. 

BOB  (slowly  counting  the  cutlery  and  silver,  back  and  forth). 
Eeny,  meeny,  miney,  mo.  Catch  a  —  (Stops  suddenly 
as  an  idea  comes  to  him.  Gazes  thought fully  at  Mollie,  for 
a  moment,  then  begins  to  count  over  again)  Eeny,  meeny, 
miney,  mo ;  Hilda's  talking  to  her  beau.  If  we  holler,  she 
may  go.  Eeny,  mee  - 

MOLLIE  (interrupting  and  exasperated  to  the  verge  of  tears). 
Bob,  if  you  don't  stop  all  that  nonsense,  I  shall  scream ! 


334  WHERE   BUT  IN   AMERICA 

(In  a  very  tense  tone)     I  believe  I'm  going  to  have  one  of 

my  sick  headaches !     (Puts  her  hand  to  her  forehead)     I 

know  it ;   I  can  feel  it  coming  on  ! 
BOB  (in  a  soothing  tone).     Hunger,  my  dear,  hunger  !    When 

you  have  a  good  warm  meal  you'll  feel  better. 
MOLLIE    (in  despair).     What  do  you  suppose  I  ought  to 

do? 

BOB.     Go  out  in  the  kitchen  and  fry  a  couple  of  eggs. 
MOLLIE.     O  !  be  serious  !     I'm  at  my  wits  end  !     Hilda  never 

did  anything  like  this  before. 
BOB  (suddenly  quite  serious).     What  does  that  fellow  do  for 

a  living,  anyhow? 
MOLLIE.     How  should  I  know? 
BOB.     Didn't  you  ever  ask  Hilda  ? 
MOLLIE.     Certainly  not.    Hilda  doesn't  ask  me  about  your 

business,  why  should  I  pry  into  her  affairs  ? 
BOB  (taking  out  his  cigarette  case  and  lighting  a  cigarette). 

Mollie,  I  see  you're  strong  for  the  Constitution  of  the 

United  States. 

MOLLIE  (suspiciously).     What  do  you  mean  by  that? 
BOB.     The  Constitution  says:   "Whereas  it  is  a  self-evident 

truth  that  all  men  are  born  equal"  —  (With  a  wave  of  the 

hand)     Hilda  and  you,  and  the  Terrible  Swede  and  I  and  — 
MOLLIE  (interrupting).     Bob,  you're  such  a  heathen!     That's 

not  in  the  Constitution.     That's  in  the  Bible ! 
BOB.     Well,  wherever  it  is,  until  this  evening  I  never  realized 

what  a  personage  Hilda  is. 
MOLLIE.     You  can  make  fun  of  me  all  you  please,  but  I  know 

what's  right !     Your  remarks  don't  influence  me  in  the 

least  —  not  in  the  least ! 
BOB    (murmurs    thoughtfully     and    feelingly).     How    true! 

(Abruptly)     Why  don't  they  get  married  ?     Do  you  know 

that? 
MOLLIE.     All  I  know  is  that  they  are  waiting  until  his  business 

is  entirely  successful  so  that  Hilda  won't  have  to  work. 
BOB.     Well,  the  Swedes  are  pretty  careful  of  their  money. 

The  chances  are  Hilda  has  a  neat  little  nest  egg  laid  by. 


WHERE   BUT  IN  AMERICA  335 

MOLLIE  (hesitating  and  doubtfully).     That's  one  thing  that 

worries  me  a  little.     I  think  Hilda  puts  money  —  into 

into  —  into  the  young  man's  business. 

BOB  (indignantly).     Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  this  girl 

gives  her  money  to  that  fellow  and  you  don't  try  to  find 

out  a  thing  about  him  ?     Who  he  is  or  what  he  does  ?     I 

suppose  she  supports  the  loafer. 

MOLLIE  (with  dignity).     He's  not  a  loafer.     I've  seen  him 

and  I've  talked  with  him  and  I  know  he's  a  gentleman. 
BOB.     Mollie,  I'm  getting  tired  of  all  that  kind  of  drivel. 
I  believe  now-a-days  women  give  a  good  deal  more  thought 
to  pleasing  their  maids  than  they  do  to  pleasing  their 
husbands. 

MOLLIE  (demurely).     Well,  you  know,  Bob,  your  maid  can 
leave  you  much  easier  than  your   husband  can    (pauses 
thoughtfully)  and  I'm  sure  she's  much  harder  to  replace. 
BOB  (very  angry,  looking  at  his  watch,  throwing  his  napkin  on  the 
table  and  standing  up).     Mollie,  our  dinner  has  been  inter 
rupted  for  fifteen  minutes  while  Hilda  entertains  her  (with 
sarcasm)  gentleman  friend.     If  you  won't  stop  it,  I  will. 
[Steps  toward  the  door,  center. 

MOLLIE  (sternly,  pointing  to  Bob's  chair).  Robert,  sit  down  ! 
[Bob  pauses,  momentarily,  and  at  the  instant  Hilda  enters, 
center,  meeting  Bob,  face  to  face.  Both  are  startled.  Bob 
in  a  surly  manner  walks  back  to  his  place  at  the  table. 
Hilda  follows,  excited  and  eager.  Bob  sits  down  and  Hilda 
stands  for  a  moment  at  the  table,  smiling  from  one  to  the  other 
and  evidently  anxious  to  say  something.  Bob  and  Mollie  are 
severe  and  unfriendly.  They  gaze  at  Hilda  coldly.  Slowly 
Hilda's  enthusiasm  cools  and  she  becomes  again  the  impas 
sive  servant. 

HILDA.     Aixcuse  me,  Meeses  Aispenhayne,  I  am  very  sorry. 
I  bring  the  dinner  right  in. 
[Hilda  exits  left. 

BOB.  It's  all  nonsense.  (Touches  the  plates  again,  but  this 
time  even  more  cautiously  than  before.  This  time  he  finds  they 
are  entirely  safe  to  handle)  These  plates  are  stone  cold  now. 


336  WHERE   BUT  IN  AMERICA 

[Hilda  enters,  left,  with  meat  platter.     Places  it  before  Bob. 
He  serves  the  meat  and  Mollie  starts  to  serve  the  vegetables. 
Hilda  hands  Mollie  her  meat  plate. 
MOLLIE.     Vegetables  ? 

(Bob  is  chewing  on  his  meat  and  does  not  answer.  Mollie 
looks  at  him  inquiringly.  But  his  eyes  are  on  his  plate.  Re 
peating)  Vegetables  ? 

(Stitt  no  answer  from  Bob.  Very  softly  under  her  breath) 
H'mm. 

[Mollie  helps  herself  to  vegetables  and  then  dishes  out  a  portion 
which  she  hands  to  Hilda,  who  in  turn  places  the  dish  beside 
Bob.  When  both  are  served  Hilda  stands  for  a  moment 
back  of  the  table.  She  clasps  and  unclasps  her  hands  in  a 
nervous  manner,  seems  about  to  speak,  but  as  Bob  and  Mollie 
pay  no  attention  to  her  she  slowly  and  reluctantly  turns,  and 
exits  left.  Mollie  takes  one  or  two  bites  of  the  meat  and  then 
gives  a  quick  glance  at  Bob.  He  is  busy  chewing  at  his  meat 
and  Mollie  quietly  lays  down  her  knife  and  fork  and  turns  to 
the  vegetables. 

BOB  (chewing  desperately  on  his  meat).     Tenderloin,  I  believe  ? 
MOLLIE  (sweetly).     Yes,  dear. 
BOB  (imitating  Mollie  a  moment  back) .     H'mm !     (He  takes 

one  or  two  more  hard  bites)     Mollie,  I  have  an  idea. 
MOLLIE.     I'm  relieved. 

BOB  (savagely) .  Yes,  you  will  be  when  you  hear  it.  When  we 
get  that  builder's  name  from  Fanny  Russell,  we'll  tell  him 
that  instead  of  a  garage,  which  we  don't  need,  he  can 
build  a  special  telephone  booth  off  the  kitchen.  Then 
while  Hilda  serves  the  dinner  — 

[Bob  stops  short,  as  Hilda  bursts  in  abruptly,  left,  and  comes 
to  the  table. 

HILDA.     Aixcuse  me,  Meeses  Aispenhayne,  I  am  so  excited. 
MOLLIE  (anxiously).     Is  anything  wrong,  Hilda? 
HILDA  (explosively).     Meeses  Aispenhayne,  Meester  Leend- 
quist  he  say  you  want  to  move  to  Highland  Park. 
[Bob  and  Mollie  simultaneously  drop  their  knives  and  forks 
and  look  at  Hilda  in  astonishment  and  wonder. 


WHERE   BUT   IN   AMERICA  387 

MOLLIE.     What  ? 

30B.       Who  ? 

HILDA  (repeats  very  rapidly).     Meester  Leendquist,  he  say 

you  look  for  house  on  North  Shore  ! 

MOLLIE  (utterly  overcome  at  Hilda's  knowledge  and  at  a  loss  for 
words  of  denial).  We  move  to  the  North  Shore?  How 
ridiculous  !  Hilda,  where  did  you  get  such  an  idea  ?  ( Turns 
to  Robert)  Robert,  did  you  ever  hear  anything  so  laugh 
able  ?  (She  forces  a  strained  laugh)  Ha  !  Ha  !  Ha ! 
(Robert  has  been  looking  at  Hilda  in  dumb  wonder.  At 
Mollie's  question  he  turns  to  her  in  startled  surprise.  He 
starts  to  answer,  gulps,  swallows  hard,  and  then  coughs 
violently.  Very  sharply,  after  waiting  a  moment  for  Bob  to 
answer)  Robert  Espenhayne,  will  you  stop  that  cough 
ing  and  answer  me ! 

BOB  (between  coughs  and  drinking  a  glass  of  water).  Egh  ! 
Egh!  Excuse  me!  Something,  eh!  egh !  stuck  in  my 
throat. 

MOLLIE  (turning  to  Hilda) .  Some  day  we  might  want  to  move 
north,  Hilda,  but  not  now  !  Oh  no,  not  now ! 

BOB.     Who  told  you  that,  Hilda  ? 

HILDA.     Meester  Leendquist. 

MOLLIE  (puzzled).     Who  is  Mr.  Lindquist? 

HILDA  (surprised).  Meester  Leendquist  —  (pa uses,  a  trifle 
embarrassed)  Meester  Leendquist  ees  young  man  who 
just  speak  to  me  on  telephone.  He  come  to  see  me  every 
Saturday. 

BOB.     Oh,  Mr.  Lindquist,  the  —  the  —  Ter  — 

MOLLIE   (interrupting  frantically,   and  waving  her  hands  at 

Bob). 

Yes,  yes,  of  course.  You  know  —  Mr.  Lindquist !  (Bob 
catches  himself  just  in  time  and  Mollie  settles  back  with  a 
sigh  of  relief,  then  turns  to  Hilda  with  a  puzzled  air)  But 
where  did  Mr.  Lindquist  get  such  an  idea  ? 

HILDA.     Mrs.  Russell  tell  heem  so. 

MOLLIE  (now  entirely  bewildered).     What  Mrs.  Russell? 

HILDA,     Meeses  Russell  —  your  friend. 


338  WHERE   BUT   IN   AMERICA 

MOLLIE  (more  and  more  at  sea).     Mrs.  Edwin  Russell  who 

comes  to  see  me  —  every  now  and  then  ? 
HILDA.     Yes. 

MOLLIE.  But  how  does  Mrs.  Russell  know  Mr.  Lindquist 
and  why  should  she  tell  Mr.  Lindquist  that  we  expected 
to  move  to  the  North  Shore  ? 

HILDA.  Meester  Leendquist,  he  build  Meeses  Russell's 
house.  That  ees  hees  business.  He  build  houses  on 
North  Shore  and  he  sell  them  and  rent  them. 
[Bob  and  Mollie  look  at  each  other  and  at  Hilda  in  wonder 
and  astonishment  as  the  situation  slowly  filters  into  their 
brains.  A  long  pause. 

BOB  (in  awe  and  astonishment).  You  mean  that  Mr.  Lind 
quist,  the  young  man  who  comes  to  see  you  every  —  every 

every  now  and  then  —  is  the  same  man  who  put  up  the 

Russell  house  ? 

HILDA.     Yes,  Meester  Aispenhayne. 

BOB  (slowly).     And  when  Mrs.  Espenhayne  (points  to  Mollie) 
wrote  to  Mrs.  Russell  (jerks  his  thumb  to  indicate  the  North) 
Mrs.  Russell  told  Mr.  Lindquist  (jerks  his  thumb  in  opposite 
direction)  and  Mr.  Lindquist  telephoned  to  you  ? 
[Points  to  Hilda. 
HILDA.     Yes,  Meester  Aispenhayne. 

[Nodding. 

BOB  (very  thoughtfully  and  slowly).      H'mm!     (Then  slowly 
resuming  his  meal  and  speaking  in  mock  seriousness,  in  subtle 
jest  at  Mollie,  and  imitating  her  tone  of  a  moment  or  two  back) 
But  of  course,  you  understand,  Hilda,  we  don't  want  to 
move  to  the  North  Shore  now !     Oh,  no,  not  now ! 
HILDA  (somewhat  crestfallen).     Yes,  Meester  Aispenhayne. 
BOB   (reflectively).     But,  of  course,  if  Mr.   Lindquist  builds 

houses,  we  might  look.  Yes,  we  might  look. 
HILDA  (in  growing  confidence  and  enthusiasm).  Yes,  Meester 
Aispenhayne,  and  he  build  such  beautiful  houses  and  so 
cheap.  He  do  so  much  heemself.  Hees  father  was  car 
penter  and  he  work  hees  way  through  Uneeversity  of 
Mennesota  and  study  architecture  and  then  he  go  to 


WHERE   BUT   IN   AMERICA  339 

Uneeversity  of  Eelenois  and  study  landscape  gardening 
and  now  he  been  in  business  for  heemself  sex  years.  And 
oh,  Meeses  Aispenhayne,  you  must  see  hees  own  home  ! 
You  will  love  eet,  eet  ees  so  beautiful.  A  little  house,  far 
back  from  the  road.  You  can  hardly  see  eet  for  the  trees 
and  the  shrubs,  and  een  the  summer  the  roses  grow  all 
around  eet.  Eet  is  just  like  the  picture  book ! 

MOLLIE  (in  the  most  perfunctory  tone,  utterly  without  interest 
or  enthusiasm).  How  charming!  (Pauses  thoughtfully, 
then  turns  to  Hilda,  anxiously)  Then  I  suppose,  Hilda,  if 
we  should  decide  to  move  up  to  the  North  Shore  you 
would  go  with  us  ? 

HILDA  (hesitatingly).  Yes,  Meeses  Aispenhayne.  (Pauses) 
But  I  theenk  I  must  tell  you  thees  spring  Meester  Leend- 
quist  and  I  aixpect  to  get  married.  Meester  Leendquist's 
business  ees  very  good.  (With  a  quick  smile  and  a  glance 
from  one  to  the  other)  You  know,  I  am  partner  with  heem.  I 
put  all  my  money  een  Meester  Leendquist's  business  too. 
[Mollie  and  Bob  gaze  at  each  other  in  complete  resignation  and 
surrender. 

BOB  (quite  seriously  after  a  long  pause).  Hilda,  I  don't  know 
whether  we  will  move  north  or  not,  but  the  next  time  Mr. 
Lindquist  comes  here,  I  want  you  to  introduce  me  to  him. 
I'd  like  to  know  him.  You  ought  to  be  very  proud  of  a 
man  like  that. 

HILDA  (radiant  with  pleasure).  Thank  you,  Meester  Aispen 
hayne. 

MOLLIE.  Yes,  indeed,  Hilda,  Mr.  Espenhayne  has  often 
said  what  a  fine  young  man  Mr.  Lindquist  seems  to  be. 
We  want  to  meet  him,  and  Mr.  Espenhayne  and  I  will 
talk  about  the  house  and  then  we  will  speak  to  Mr.  Lind 
quist.  (Then  weakly)  Of  course,  we  didn't  expect  to 
move  north  for  a  long  time,  but  of  course,  if  you  expect  to 
get  married,  and  Mr.  Lindquist  builds  houses  — 
[Her  voice  dies  out.  Long  pause. 

HILDA.  Thank  you,  Meeses  Aispenhayne,  I  tell  Mr.  Leend- 
quist. 


340  WHERE   BUT   IN   AMERICA 

[Hilda  stands  at  the  table  a  moment  longer,  then  slowly  turns 
and  moves  toward  door,,  left.  Bob  and  Mollie  watch  her  and 
as  she  moves  away  from  the  table  Bob  turns  to  Mollie.  At 
this  moment  Hilda  stops,  turns  suddenly  and  returns  to  the 
table. 

HILDA.     Oh,  Meeses  Aispenhayne,  I  forget  one  theeng ! 

MOLLIE.     What  now,  Hilda  ? 

HILDA.  Meester  Leendquist  say  eef  you  and  Meester  Aispen 
hayne  want  to  look  at  property  on  North  Shore,  I  shall  let 
heem  know  and  he  meet  you  at  station  weeth  hees  automo 
bile. 

CURTAIN 


A  QUESTION  OF  MORALITY 

PERCIVAL  WILDE 

MR.  PERCIVAL  WILDE  was  born  March  1,  1887,  and  was 
graduated  from  Columbia  University  in  1906.  After  being 
in  business  for  some  years,  he  commenced  writing,  and  in 
May,  1917,  he  enlisted  in  the  navy.  During  the  war  he 
was  an  officer  of  the  navy  on  active  service. 

He  has  published  "The  Line  of  No  Resistance",  1913, 
"Dawn  and  Other  One-Act  Plays  of  To-day",  1915  ;  "Con 
fessional  and  Other  American  Plays",  1916;  and  "The 
Unseen  Host  and  Other  War  Plays",  1917.  He  is  co-author 
with  Samuel  Shipman  of  "  Lambs  are  Lions  ",  1918. 

Thirty-one  of  his  plays  have  been  produced  and  some  have 
had  many  productions.  They  have  been  given  in  vaudeville 
and  by  various  Little  Theatres.  Mr.  Wilde  wrote  vaudeville 
one-acters  exclusively  from  1912  to  1914,  but  then  effected  a 
complete  change  in  his  writing  and  since  1915  has  written 
with  a  more  literary  end  in  view.  Mr.  Wilde  states  that 
this  has  not  prevented  some  of  his  recent  plays  from  being 
reduced  to  a  least  common  multiple,  however,  and  being 
produced  in  vaudeville. 


« 


A  QUESTION  OF  MORALITY 

A   COMEDY 


BY  PERC)V4Ltf/ILDE 


"A  Question  of  Morality"  was  originally  produced  by  the 
Brooklyn  Repertory  Theatre  Company  (affiliated  with  the 
People's  Institute  of  Brooklyn)  on  Wednesday  evening, 
March  7,  1917,  at  the  People's  Institute. 

Original  Cast 

SHELTON Thomas  Mitchell 

CARRUTHERS Harmon  Cheshire 

DOROTHY  SHELTON  Beatrice  Reinhardt 


COPYRIGHT,  1916,  BY  PEKOIVAL  WILDE. 
All  rights  reserved. 

Printed  originally  in  the  Century  Magazine.  Reprinted  in  "Confessional  and 
Other  American  Plays,"  and  printed  in  this  volume  by  permission  of,  and  by  special 
arrangement  with,  Mr.  Percival  Wilde  and  Henry  Holt  and  Company. 

Application  for  the  right  of  performing  "  A  Question  of  Morality  "  must  be  made 
*o  Mr.  Percival  Wilde,  Society  of  American  Authors,  Candler  Building,  New  York. 


A  QUESTION  OF  MORALITY 

SCENE.  As  the  curtain  rises,  Shelton  and  Carruthers  are  dis 
covered.  Shelton,  a  not  unattractive  social  butterfly  of  some 
thirty-five  years  of  age,  has  inherited  wealth,  and  having  never 
had  to  concern  himself  with  productive  labor,  has  acquired  a  fine 
dilettantism :  an  ability  to  do  many  things  badly,  without  doing 
any  one  of  them  so  badly  that  it  becomes  evident  he  has  neglected 
it.  Carruthers,  his  friend,  has  even  less  claim  to  distinction. 
They  would  pass  in  a  crowd  —  if  the  crowd  were  large  enough, 
but  no  one,  with  the  possible  exception  of  a  Society  Editor,  would 
give  either  of  them  a  second  glance.  Were  one  to  seek  something 
visibly  commendable  about  them,  one  might  remark  that  they  are 
groomed  and  tailored  to  an  exquisite  nicety  —  too  exquisite, 
perhaps.  They  are  in  full  dress,  for  they  have  just  finished  the 
evening  meal,  and  as  the  assiduous  butler  lights  their  cigars, 
places  the  liqueur  tray  on  the  table,  and  discreetly  effaces  himself, 
they  slowly  push  their  chairs  into  more  comfortable  positions, 
and  look  at  each  other.  There  is  something  in  that  look:  some 
thing  unusual,  and  the  shadow  of  a  smile  curls  about  the  hus 
band's  lips  as  he  raises  his  arm  to  consult  a  wrist-watch. 
CARRUTHERS.  What  time  ? 
SHELTON.  Twelve  minutes  of  eight  —  no,  ten  minutes  of. 

My  watch  is  a  little  slow. 
CARRUTHERS  (rather  brilliantly  after  a  pause).     Thought  it 

was  later  than  that. 
SHELTON  (having  weighed  the  pros  and  cons  carefully}.     So 

did  I. 

CARRUTHERS  (after  another  pause).     Thought  it  was  at  least 
quarter  past. 


346  A  QUESTION  OF  MORALITY 

SHELTON.  So  did  I.  (Consulting  the  watch  again)  It's 
eleven  minutes  of  —  that  is  to  say,  nine  minutes  of,  now. 
(He  pauses  and  smiles  reflectively)  Jerry ! 

CARRUTHERS.       Yes  ? 

SHELTON.     I  wonder  what  Cheever's  saying  to  her  now. 

CARRUTHERS.       I  WOnder  ? 

SHELTON  (examining  a  time-table).     Their  train  pulls  out  at 

eight. 
CARRUTHERS  (with  a  trace  of  animation) .     I  thought  you  said 

they  were  leaving  this  afternoon. 
SHELTON.     Eh  ? 

CARRUTHERS.     The  six  o'clock  train,  you  said  first. 
SHELTON.     Oh,  yes.     But  she  had  to  do  some  shopping.     You 

can't  get  any  decent  clothes  in  Chicago,  you  know.     (He 

chuckles  slowly)     I  suppose  she  wanted  the  satisfaction  of 

charging  a  final  bill  to  me,  eh,  Jerry  ?  J^*^y 

CARRUTHERS    (nodding    sympathetically).     It's    cost    you    a 

pretty  penny,  all  in  all. 
SHELTON   (philosophically).     Well,  your  wife  doesn't  elope 

with  some  other  chap  every  day,  does  she? 
CARRUTHERS  (undecidedly).     Er,  no. 
SHELTON.     This  is  a  special  occasion.     If  Dorothy  feels  she 

has  a  right  to  carte  blanche  on  her  last  day  as  my  wife,  I 

don't  know  but  what  I  ought  to  agree  with  her.     It's 

sentimental,  you  know. 
CARRUTHERS.     But  expensive. 
SHELTON.     Sentiment   is   always  expensive.     At   any   rate, 

I'm  footing  the  bills.     A  little  more  or  less  doesn't  matter. 

(He  rises,  and  produces  a  mass  of  papers  from  a  convenient 

desk)     Just  look  at  these. 
CARRUTHERS.     What  are  they? 
SHELTON.     The  detectives'  reports.     (He  thumbs  them  over 

with  a  smile)     It's  been  like  a  continued-in-our-next  story. 

I've  been  reading  them  for  the  last  month. 
CARRUTHERS  (surprised).     I  didn't  know  you  had  detectives 

following  her. 
SHELTON  (confused).     Er,  yes. 


A  QUESTION  OF  MORALITY  347 

CARRUTHERS.     Do  you  think  that's  cricket  ? 

SHELTON  (hesitantly).  Well,  I  couldn't  ask  her  if  she  was 
going  to  run  away. 

CARRUTHERS.     Why  not  ? 

SHELTON.  She's  too  good  a  woman  to  lie  to  me  —  and  I 
didn't  want  to  embarrass  her.  (Carruthers  smiles  cynically. 
Shelton  crushes  him  politely)  You  wouldn't  understand 
such  things  anyhow,  Jerry.  (He  bundles  the  reports  together 
again)  The  last  installment  reached  me  to-day.  It  took 
her  a  month  to  make  up  her  mind.  Cheever  wanted  her  to 
elope  long  ago,  but  she  wouldn't  hear  of  it.  She  had 
scruples.  And  to-morrow ! 

CARRUTHERS  (thinking  he  is  rising  to  the  situation).  To 
morrow's  another  day. 

SHELTON  (with  a  faint  frown).  No.  To-morrow  I'll  be  a  free 
man  —  no  wife,  no  responsibilities,  no  conscience.  Rather 
clever  of  me,  eh,  Jerry  ?  If  I  had  told  her  I  didn't  mind, 
she  never  would  have  run  off.  Never  ! 

CARRUTHERS.     She's  a  moral  woman,  your  wife. 

SHELTON  (nodding  emphatically).  Well,  rather!  (Confiden 
tially)  Do  you  know,  I'm  not  sure  that  she  isn't  running 
off  with  Cheever  because  she  wants  to  reform  him  ?  He's 
a  bad  lot,  you  know ;  gambles,  and  drinks,  and-a-devil  with 
the  ladies. 

CARRUTHERS  (slowly) .  I'm  not  knocking  anybody,  but  you 
used  to  travel  around  with  him. 

SHELTON  (not  at  all  disturbed).  Yes:  when  I  was  single. 
Oh,  I'm  not  making  any  bones  about  it :  I  was  as  bad  as 
he  —  worse.  (With  satisfaction)  Much  worse.  Cheever 
and  I,  well,  we  had  reps  !  You  know  what  they  were  like. 

CARRUTHERS.   I  do. 

SHELTON  (solemnly).  But  that's  all  over  with  now.  I'm  a 
better  man  since  I  married  Dorothy.  She's  reformed  me. 
There  was  lots  to  reform,  too.  I  was  a  bad  'un.  But  that 
didn't  bother  her:  she  enjoyed  it.  She  used  to  talk  to 
me,  just  like  a  mother,  Jerry,  and  she  got  me  to  cut  out 
cards,  and  the  ponies  —  (he  pauses  reflectively)  —  I  used  to 


348  A  QUESTION  OF  MORALITY 

lose  a  bale  of  money  on  the  races,  Jerry.  (Carruthers  does 
not  answer.  He  finishes  emphatically)  She's  had  an 
awfully  good  influence  on  me. 

CARRUTHERS  (after  a  period  of  cogitation) .     She's  helped  you  ? 

SHELTON  (enthusiastically).  Helped  me?  I  can't  begin  to 
tell  you  how  many  ways  —  i  H  T  J|  he.)  I 

CARRUTHERS  (interrupting) .   Then  why  are  you  letting  her  go  ? 

SHELTON  (taken  aback).     Eh? 

CARRUTHERS.     Why  are  you  letting  her  run  off  with  Cheever  ? 

SHELTON  (nervously) .  You  don't  keep  on  taking  the  medicine 
after  you're  cured,  do  you,  Jerry  ?  I'm  cured,  you  know. 
And  I  don't  want  to  be  cured  any  more  than  I  am.  I'm  a 
good  man.  I'm  so  good,  Jerry,  I'm  so  good  sometimes, 
that  I'm  almost  afraid  of  myself !  (He  pauses,  to  continue 
candidly)  It's  so  different  —  and  so  strange.  Before  I 
married  Dorothy  I  wasn't  good :  that  was  when  I  went 
around  with  Cheever.  But  it  was  so  comfortable :  I  was 
so  sure  of  myself.  I  never  had  any  regrets.  I  wasn't 
afraid  to  drink,  because  even  if  I  —  well,  even  if  I  did 
take  a  drop  too  much  I  wouldn't  make  a  fool  of  myself : 
I'd  act  just  as  if  I  were  sober.  (He  emphasizes  his  point 
with  a  clenched  fist)  Jerry,  I  was  consistent  then  !  I  was 
dependable.  I  never  had  anything  to  be  ashamed  of. 
Whatever  I  did,  well,  I  stood  back  of  it.  I  didn't  have  to 
worry.  And  now  ?  I'm  living  on  the  brink  of  a  volcano  ! 
I'm  full  of  all  kinds  of  impulses  to  do  good  things  :  things 
I  don't  want  to  do.  I  never  know  what's  going  to  happen 
next,  and  Jerry,  I  don't  like  it !  It's  not  fair  to  me.  I'm 
like  a  man  who  has  swallowed  a  stick  of  dynamite :  he's 
expecting  it  to  blow  up  any  minute,  but  if  it  ever  does 
blow  up,  there  won't  be  enough  of  him  left  to  be  surprised  at 
it.  (Carruthers,  considerably  beyond  his  depth,  makes  no 
reply)  A  man  should  be  true  to  himself.  I  don't  know 
whom  I'm  true  to,  but  it's  not  Billy  Shelton  !  There's  no 
Billy  Shelton  left :  he's  nine-tenths  Dorothy,  and  one-tenth 
remnants ! 

CARRUTHERS  (shifting  uneasily) .    Isn't  it  time  to  go  to  a  show  ? 


A  QUESTION  OF  MORALITY  349 

SHELTON   (consulting  his  watch).     Eight  o'clock.     That  is, 

two  minutes  after.     Jerry,  she's  gone  ! 
CARRUTHERS.     All  right.     Let's  get  our  coats  on. 

[He  rises. 

SHELTON.     No.     Wait  a  minute. 
CARRUTHERS  (glancing  at  him  curiously) .     What's  the  matter 

with  you  ? 

SHELTON.     It's  too  sudden.     I  can't  realize  it  yet. 
CARRUTHERS.     You've  been  expecting  it  a  month. 

SHELTON.       Yes. 

CARRUTHERS.     Waiting  for  it  —  counting  the  hours. 
SHELTON.     Yes.     (He  throws  his  cigar  away  nervously)     Jerry, 
it's  two  years  since  I've  been  to  a  show  without  Dorothy. 

CARRUTHERS.       Well  ? 

SHELTON.     What  are  you  going  to  do  afterwards  ? 

CARRUTHERS.     Anything  you  like. 

SHELTON.     For  instance? 

CARRUTHERS.     Stop  in  somewhercs  for  a  bite.     Look  in  at 

the  Club :  there's  always  a  game  of  stud. 
SHELTON  (nodding  thoughtfully) .     I  used  to  lose  a  lot  of  money 

at  that,  Jerry.     (He  looks  at  him  appealingly)     Jerry. 

CARRUTHERS.       Well  ? 

SHELTON.     Would  you  mind  —  if  I  stayed  home  to-night  ? 

CARRUTHERS  (surprised).     What? 

SHELTON.     I  mean  it.     I  don't  feel  like  going  out  so  soon 

after  — 
CARRUTHERS.     It's  not  a  funeral,  you  know. 

SHELTON.       No.       But 

CARRUTHERS.       But  what  ? 

SHELTON.     Dorothy  wouldn't  like  it. 

CARRUTHERS.     Good  Lord ! 

SHELTON    (nodding  seriously).     I   mean   it.     Anyhow,   you 

want  to  see  some  musical  comedy,  don't  you  ? 
CARRUTHERS.     Why  not  ? 
SHELTON.     It  would  bore  me  to  death.     (Rather  shamefacedly) 

I  used  to  care  for  that  sort  of  thing,  but  Dorothy  taught  me 

to  enjoy  the  opera. 


350  A  QUESTION   OF  MORALITY 

CARRUTHERS  (facing  him  resolutely) .     Answer  me  one  question, 

SHELTON.     Well  ? 

CARRUTHERS.     Is  Dorothy  your  wife,  or  was  she  your  wife  ? 

SHELTON  (hesitantly).  I  guess  it's  "is."  You  see,  she's  not 
more  than  ten  miles  away  from  New  York  now. 

CARRUTHERS.  And  you're  afraid  you  may  have  to  account 
to  her? 

SHELTON.  No.  It's  not  that.  She's  left  me,  and  I'm  my 
own  master.  But  the  very  day  that  she  elopes,  don't 
you  think  it  would  be  a  little  (he  searches  for  a  word)  —  a 
little  indecent  if  I  were  to  start  celebrating  ?  I'm  a  gentle 
man,  Jerry,  and  it  wouldn't  be  quite  respectful  to  Dorothy. 
She  mighn't  like  it.  (He  lights  on  a  happy  simile)  It's 
like  reading  the  will  while  the  corpse  is  still  warm,  isn't 
it?  Come  now,  be  honest,  Jerry. 

CARRUTHERS  (with  warmth).  Well,  I'm  thirty-three,  and 
I'm  a  bachelor. 

SHELTON.     What's  the  point? 

CARRUTHERS.  I  say  if  that's  married  life,  I  don't  want  to 
get  married ! 

[The  door  opens,  and  Dorothy,  a  toll,  slim,  rather  attractive 
woman  in  her  late  twenties,  stands  on  the  threshold.  She 
is  quite  excited,  and  she  trembles  a  little.  The  men,  thunder 
struck  at  her  sudden  appearance,  are  unable  to  voice  a  greeting. 
Shelton,  collapsed  in  his  chair,  gasps  like  a  fish  out  of  water, 
and  Carruthers,  petrified  at  the  height  of  an  oratorical  gesture, 
is  not  much  better. 

SHELTON  (at  length).  Good  evening,  Dorothy.  (Dorothy 
leaves  the  doorway,  and  staggers  to  a  chair.  Shelton,  alarmed, 
hastens  to  her)  Get  some  water,  Jerry. 

DOROTHY.     No,  no.     I  want  nothing. 

[Carruthers,  carafe  in  hand,  stands  motionless.  Shelton  in 
dicates  the  door.  Carruthers  nods,  and  goes. 

DOROTHY.     Is  he  gone  ? 

SHELTON.  Yes.  (Genuinely  anxious)  Is  anything  wrong 
with  you,  Dorothy  ? 

DOROTHY.     No  ...  (She  pauses)     Billy. 


A  QUESTION   OF   MORALITY  351 

SHELTON.       Yes  ? 

DOROTHY.     I've  come  back.     I've  come  home  again. 

SHELTON  (lamely).     Yes.     So  I  notice. 

DOROTHY.     You  got  my  note  ? 

SHELTON.     Your  note  ?     What  note  ? 

DOROTHY.     I  sent  it  with  a  messenger  half  an  hour  ago. 

SHELTON.     I  haven't  seen  it. 

DOROTHY.  No?  (She  passes  her  hand  over  her  forehead 
wearily)  Billy,  it  was  a  farewell. 

SHELTON  (with  an  affectation  of  surprise} .     What  ? 

DOROTHY.  I  was  on  the  point  of  leaving  you:  of  running 
off  with  another  man. 

SHELTON.     With  Cheever  ? 

DOROTHY.  You  suspected  ?  (Shelton  nods.  She  goes  to 
wards  him  with  outstretched  hands)  Billy,  at  the  last 
minute  something  stopped  me.  Something  made  me 
come  home  to  you. 

[For  an  instant  Shelton  is  silent.     Then  comes  the  amazing 
question. 

SHELTON.     Why  ? 

DOROTHY  (staggered).     What? 

SHELTON  (insistently).  You  were  on  the  point  of  running 
away.  You  had  planned  everything  carefully :  people 
don't  do  such  things  on  the  spur  of  the  moment.  What 
stopped  you  ? 

DOROTHY  (gasping  at  the  shock).     Don't  you  love  me? 

SHELTON  (not  answering  the  question) .  Cheever  is  a  rich  man. 
Of  course,  he  hasn't  got  as  much  as  I've  got,  but  he  has 
plenty  to  take  care  of  you.  The  scandal  you  must  have 
been  prepared  for.  If  you  loved  Cheever,  what  made  you 
come  back  to  me  ? 

DOROTHY.     You  don't  love  me,  Billy  ? 

SHELTON.     Would  that  have  stopped  you? 

DOROTHY.  Would  that  have  —  ?  (She  stops,  thunderstruck 
at  what  she  sees  within  herself)  I  don't  know !  (Breaking 
down  and  weeping)  I  don't  know,  Billy!  (There  is  a 
pause.  Then  she  gathers  herself  together)  Billy,  look  at  me  ! 


352  A   QUESTION   OF   MORALITY 

SHELTON.       Well  ? 

DOROTHY.     Am  I  a  good  woman? 

SHELTON  (hesitantly).     Well  - 

DOROTHY.     Tell  me  the  truth,  Billy. 

SHELTON.  You  were  a  good  woman  when  you  married 
me. 

DOROTHY  (excitedly).  Yes!  That's  right!  I  was  a  good 
woman  then.  But  am  I  a  good  woman  now?  (He  hes 
itates)  Answer  me  !  Tell  me  ! 

SHELTON  (after  a  pause).     I  don't  know,  Dorothy. 

DOROTHY  (desperately).  Billy,  neither  do  I!  (There  is  a 
pause)  No  girl  was  ever  brought  up  as  I  was.  We  were 
good :  so  good !  All  the  people  I  met  were  so  good !  I 
don't  believe  any  of  them  ever  had  a  normal  impulse. 
They  were  saints,  Billy,  saints !  Then  you  were  intro 
duced  to  me  —  you  remember  ? 

SHELTON.     Yes. 

DOROTHY.  I  thought  you  were  the  worst  man  I  had  ever 
met.  (Shelton  is  a  little  upset,  but  Dorothy  proceeds  fluently) 
I  had  heard  the  most  awful  stories  about  you,  oh,  the 
most  unbelievable  things  !  You  and  Cheever  ! 

SHELTON  (nodding).     We  were  pals. 

DOROTHY.  Yes.  I  began  to  think.  I  knew  that  if  I  married 
a  man  as  good  as  I  was,  I'd  go  mad :  stark,  staring  mad ! 
(She  pauses)  Billy,  have  you  ever  felt  an  impulse  to  do 
something  outrageous? 

SHELTON.     Of  course. 

DOROTHY.     What  happened  ? 

SHELTON.     I  did  it. 

DOROTHY.  So  did  I !  For  the  first  time  in  my  life  !  I  mar 
ried  you ! 

SHELTON  (of  ended).     Thank  you,  Dorothy. 

DOROTHY.  Oh,  I've  had  no  regrets !  It  wasn't  good  for 
me,  but  I've  enjoyed  it !  I've  enjoyed  it  too  much  ! 

SHELTON.     What  do  you  mean  ? 

DOROTHY.  Billy,  do  you  know  you've  had  a  great  influence 
on  me?  (He  cannot  answer)  Do  you  imagine  a  woman 


A  QUESTION  OF  MORALITY  353 

can  live  with  you  for  two  years,  as  I  have  lived  with  you, 

and  remain  a  perfectly  good  woman  ? 
SHELTON  (floundering).     Isn't  that  a  little  strong? 
DOROTHY.     The  truth  is  always  strong.     I'm  not  blaming 

you,  Billy.     You've  exerted  an  influence  :  it  was  the  only 

influence  you  could  exert. 
SHELTON  (gasping) .     A  bad  one  ? 
DOROTHY.     The  best  that  was  in  you. 
SHELTON.     Which  is  to  say,  the  worst? 

DOROTHY.       I  Suppose  SO. 

SHELTON.     And  Cheever  ? 

DOROTHY.  Another  impulse.  (She  pauses)  Billy,  I  never 
knew  until  to-day  how  much  bad  there  was  in  me.  I 
didn't  even  know  it  when  I  began  to  go  around  with 
Cheever. 

SHELTON  (bewildered) .     Do  you  call  him  a  good  impulse  ? 

DOROTHY.  I  don't  know.  I  didn't  know  whether  it  was  the 
bad  in  him  calling  to  the  bad  in  me,  or  that  which  was 
capable  of  being  reformed  in  him  calling  to  the  good  in 
me  !  Which  was  it  ?  There's  bad  in  me,  and  there  must 
be  some  good  left  in  me.  But  what  am  I  ?  A  good  woman 
or  a  bad  woman  ?  I  don't  know. 

SHELTON  (after  a  moment's  reflection).  You  made  me  stop 
gambling. 

DOROTHY.     Yes. 

SHELTON.     And  drinking. 

DOROTHY.     Yes. 

SHELTON.     Why  ? 

DOROTHY.     I  wasn't  trying  to  reform  you. 

SHELTON.       No  ? 

DOROTHY.  That  came  to  me  to-day.  I  used  to  talk  to  you 
about  your  bad  habits  because,  weH,  because  I  liked  to 
talk  about  such  things.  I  liked  to  hear  you  tell  about 
them. 

SHELTON  (after  a  pause).     Anyhow,  I'm  reformed. 

DOROTHY.     Yes. 

SHELTON.     What  are  you  going  to  do  about  it  ? 


354  A  QUESTION  OF  MORALITY 

DOROTHY.  What  can  I  do  about  it?  I  can't  influence  you 
any  more :  there  isn't  any  me  left.  I  look  into  myself, 
and  I  see  oceans  of  Billy  Shelton,  nothing  but  Billy  Shelton, 
as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  and  here  and  there,  tossed  by 
the  waves,  a  little  wreckage,  such  pathetic  wreckage,  that 
used  to  be  something  better !  Billy,  to-day  I  am  what 
you  have  made  me. 

SHELTON  (thunderstruck) .  Which  is  to  say  that  it  was  7  who 
eloped  with  Cheever ! 

DOROTHY.     That's  what  it  amounts  to. 

SHELTON.  Well  then,  what  I  want  to  know  is,  why  didn't 
it  go  through? 

DOROTHY.     What  do  you  mean  ? 

SHELTON.  If  the  me  in  you  made  you  run  off  with  Cheever, 
what  brought  you  back  ? 

DOROTHY  (after  a  pause).     Nothing  brought  me  back. 

SHELTON.       No  ? 

DOROTHY.  Cheever  sent  me  back.  (There  is  a  long  pause) 
We  had  arranged  to  meet  at  the  station.  I  met  him. 
We  were  to  send  our  trunks  ahead  to  Chicago.  Mine 
left  yesterday.  I  was  ready  to  go  through  with  it  to  the 
bitter  end,  but  b«~ — 

SHELTON.     He? 

DOROTHY.     He  changed  his  mind  at  the  last  minute. 

SHELTON  (after  deliberation) .     Why  ? 

DOROTHY.     That's  what  I've  been  asking  myself. 

SHELTON.     Did  he  give  any  reason  ? 

DOROTHY.  He  didn't  have  to.  Am  I  a  good  woman  or  a 
bad  woman  ?  Cheever  knows.  I'm  not  what  he  thought 
I  was.  That's  why  he  didn't  elope  with  me.  He  found 
out  at  the  last  minute. 

SHELTON.     That  you  were  a  good  woman  ? 

DOROTHY.     Perhaps. 

SHELTON.     Or  that  you  were  a  bad  one  ? 

DOROTHY.     I'd  give  anything  to  know.     Cheever  knows. 

SHELTON.     And  he  won't  tell. 

DOROTHY.      No. 


A  QUESTION  OF  MORALITY  355 

SHELTON  (after  a  thoughtful  pause) .  I  like  his  nerve  !  (Dor 
othy  looks  at  him  in  mute  inquiry)  My  wife  not  good  enough 
for  him  to  elope  with  !  (She  does  not  answer)  Aren't  you 
pretty  enough?  (She  shrugs  her  shoulders)  Or  clever 
enough  ?  (He  surveys  her  critically)  Is  that  something 
new  you're  wearing  ? 

DOROTHY.     Yes.     I  bought  it  to-day.     Do  you  like  it  ? 

SHELTON  (nodding  his  approval).  Yes.  Looks  well  on  you. 
(There  is  a  knock  at  the  door)  Come  in. 

THE  BUTLER  (entering  with  a  letter  on  a  salver).  Messenger 
just  brought  a  note,  sir. 

DOROTHY.     Oh ! 

SHELTON  (glances  at  her.  After  an  instant's  hesitation,  she 
nods  her  permission.  He  takes  it,  slowly  opens  the  envelope, 
and  reads  the  contents.  The  Butler  waits.  Shelton  notices 
him)  Well,  why  are  you  waiting  ? 

THE  BUTLER.     Is  there  an  answer,  sir  ? 

SHELTON.     An  answer?     No. 

[The  Butler  goes.     In  the  ensuing  silence  Shelton  tears,  up 
the  note. 

DOROTHY.     My  farewell  ?     (He  nods)     Well  ? 

SHELTON  (slowly,  as  if  stating  a  mathematical  problem) .  What 
ever  you  are,  good  or  bad,  doesn't  matter.  You've  re 
formed  me  so  thoroughly  that  you  won't  go  far  wrong 
in  my  company  —  and  you're  going  to  have  lots  of  it. 

DOROTHY  (submissively).     Yes,  Billy. 

SHELTON.  You  may  make  slips  :  I  expect  you  to  make  slips, 
but  while  I'm  here  to  watch  you  they  won't  be  bad  ones. 

DOROTHY.     No,  Billy. 

SHELTON.  And  before  I  forget  it :  if  you  have  any  more  out 
rageous  impulses,  they  will  be  in  my  direction.  You 
understand  ?  (She  nods.  He  folds  her  comfortably  in  his 
arms,  and  smiles  happily)  From  now  on,  I'm  prepared 
to  enjoy  life. 

THE    CURTAIN    FALLS 


MARTHA'S  MOURNING 

PHOEBE    HOFFMAN 

Miss  PHOEBE  HOFFMAN  is  a  resident  of  Philadelphia, 
where  she  was  born  in  1894  and  was  educated  at  Miss  Irwin's 
School.  She  has  published  various  poems  in  Contemporary 
Verse,  The  Literary  Digest,  The  Art  World,  Springfield  Re 
publican,  Public  Ledger,  and  Evening  Ledger.  "  Martha's 
Mourning"  was  produced  by  the  Plays  and  Players  of 
Philadelphia,  under  the  auspices  of  the  Browning  Society. 


MARTHA'S  MOURNING 


BY  PHOEBE  HOFFMAN 


"Martha's  Mourning"  was  originally  produced  by  the 
Plays  and  Players  under  the  auspices  of  the  Browning  Society, 
at  the  Broad  Street  Theatre,  Philadelphia,  May,  1917. 

Original  Cast 

AUNTY Miss  Balburney 

MARTHA Miss  Welsh 

NEIGHBOR Mrs.  Robert  Geddes,  Jr. 


Copyright,  1918,  by  the  Drama 

All  rights  reserved. 

Printed  originally  in  Drama. 

Application  for  the  right  of  performing  "Martha's  Mourning"  must  be  made  to 
Miss  Phoebe  Hoffman,  3805  Locust  St.,  Philadelphia,  Pa. 


MARTHA'S  MOURNING 

SCENE.    A  kitchen. 

An  ill  old  woman  lies  on  a  sofa  near  the  stove;  close  by  is  a 
table  with  some  medicines  and  an  oil  lamp.  In  the  corner  stands 
a  fine  old  secretary  now  used  for  china,  and  a  handsome  ma 
hogany  mirror  hangs  in  full  view  of  the  sofa.  The  old  woman's 
niece,  Martha,  sits  by  the  stove.  She  is  a  timid  girl  with  pretty 
hair  mercilessly  dragged  back  from  her  pale  face,  which  is  il 
lumined  by  sad,  gentle  eyes.  She  is  shabbily  dressed  and  shivers 
between  half-choked  sobs.  Glancing  at  the  meager  fire  in  the 
stove,  she  rises  cautiously  to  fetch  a  log  of  wood. 
AUNTY  (fearfully) .  Stop,  stop  !  (Controlling  herself)  Don't  be 

wastin'  the  wood. 

[Martha  drops  the  wood  and  slinks  back  to  her  seat. 
MARTHA  (apologetically).     It's  so  cold,  Aunty. 
AUNTY  (grimly) .     It  makes  me  think  of  what's  comin'  to  me 

hereafter.     (Nervously)     Not  that  I'm  afraid. 

(Martha  sits  down  despondently,  murmuring  softly  to  herself. 
AUNTY  (sharply)  Don't  be  mumblin'  any  more  prayers  to  yer- 

self .     I  got  through  this  world  without  askin'  help  from  folk 

and  I  don't  want  others  beggin'  my  pardon  in  the  next. 

I'm  not  afraid  to  face  the  Lord  myself. 
MARTHA  (weeping).     But  Aunty,  that's  agin  all  religion.     Let 

me  run  and  get  the  minister.    He'll  explain  everything  to  ye. 
AUNTY  (determinedly).     No,  no,  Martha.     The   last  black- 
coated  snivell  came  here  when  the  man  died.     He  couldn't 

change  my  notions  now. 

MARTHA.     Aunty,  let  me  help  you  up  to  bed. 
AUNTY.     You'll  be  the  first  of  our  folks  to  die  in  yer  bed, 

they'll  never  say  it  of  me. 


362  MARTHA'S  MOURNING 

[Martha  is  silent  and  sits  with  her  hands  in  her  lap,  looking 
vacantly  into  the  stove.  Once  or  twice  she  starts  murmuring 
a  prayer,  but  checks  herself  fearfully.  Aunty  lies  rigid, 
suffering  acute  mental  torture.  Several  times  she  raises  her 
hands  as  if  in  prayer,  but  the  unaccustomed  words  will  not 
come  to  her  lips.  A  clock  strikes  eight  and  Martha  rises  and 
pours  some  medicine  into  a  teaspoon. 

MARTHA  (holding  the  glass  to  Aunty's  lips).  Here's  your 
physic. 

AUNTY  (snatching  the  spoon  and  throwing  it  across  the  room). 
That  stuff  might  make  me  die  in  my  sleep. 
[Martha  silently  picks  up  the  spoon. 

AUNTY.  You  might  like  that  easy  kind  of  an  end,  I  suppose, 
but  I've  got  red  blood  in  my  veins.  I'm  goin'  to  fight  it 
out  to  the  last. 

[Martha  stands  for  a  moment,  the  spoon  in  her  hands.  She 
is  thinking  and  plucking  up  courage  to  say  something  un 
usually  bold. 

MARTHA.  Aunty,  it's  pride,  not  bravery,  that's  makin'  ye 
fight  the  Lord's  will.  Christ  was  the  bravest  man  in  the 
world,  but  He  begged  for  God's  mercy  and  yielded  to  His 
will.  Ye've  defied  Him  and  every  one  else  all  yer  life. 
But,  Aunty,  you  mustn't  die  feelin'  like  that.  (Coming 
closer  and  patting  her  hand  gently)  Aunty,  yer  half  crazy 
with  pain ;  take  some  physic  and  sleep  a  little,  and  when 
ye  feel  easier,  throw  yerself  on  the  mercy  of  the  Lord.  It 
won't  be  too  late  to  repent. 

[Aunty  stares  at  her  in  astonishment.  The  truth  of  Martha's 
statement  sinks  deeply  into  her  sin-laden  conscience,  but  she 
is  still  too  proud  and  obstinate  to  admit  it  to  Martha,  whom 
she  has  always  despised  for  her  meekness. 

AUNTY  (in  somewhat  softer  tones).  I've  got  to  settle  with  the 
Lord  in  my  own  way,  Martha.  (More  weakly)  I  will 
take  some  physic,  the  pain's  gnawin'  at  my  shoulder  agin. 
Though  it's  awful  to  think  of  good  money  bein'  poured 
into  a  dyin'  person  at  the  end  of  a  teaspoon. 
[Martha  gives  Aunty  the  medicine  and  watches  her  settle  into 


MAKTHA'S  MOURNING  363 

a  peaceful  doze.  Then  she  kneels  in  silent  prayer  shivering 
till  the  cold  forces  her  to  be  active.  She  feels  the  windows  and 
draws  the  rag-carpet  against  the  outside  door,  then  glancing 
apprehensively  at  Aunty,  she  steals  out  of  the  room.  She 
returns  in  a  few  moments  wearing  a  shabby  old  coat  and 
carrying  a  black  fur  tippet.  She  sits  down  and  starts  mend 
ing  the  lining.  As  she  turns  it,  the  fur  brushes  against  her 
cheek  and  she  buries  her  face  in  it. 

MARTHA.  How  soft !  (Draws  tippet  over  one  shoulder)  I 
never  had  on  fur  before.  How  nice  it  feels. 
[Fastens  tippet  and  stands  up.  Aunty  wakens  and  watches 
her  in  amazement.  She  is  about  to  speak,  but  changing  her 
mind,  closes  her  eyes  as  Martha  suddenly  remembers  to  look 
around. 

MARTHA.  It  must  be  real  handsome.  (Cautiously  picks  up 
lamp  and  goes  over  to  the  mirror,  peering  at  herself  admiringly) 
How  stylish  I  look  ! 

[There  is  a  rapping  outside  and  Aunty  chuckles  as  Martha, 
nearly  dropping  the  lamp  in  her  agitation,  puts  it  on  the 
secretary  and  ^pens  the  door.  A  neighbor  enters. 

NEIGHBOR    (stumbling   over  the  carpet).     I   near   fell. 

[She  gives  Martha  a  quick  astonished  look  out  of  her  sharp 
little  eyes  and  glances  inquisitively  about  the  room.  She 
carries  a  bundle. 

NEIGHBOR.  How  little  ye've  changed  this  place.  How's 
yer  Aunty,  Martha  ? 

MARTHA  (sadly).     She's  low. 

NEIGHBOR.  The  doctor  told  me  she  was  goin',  and  I've  come 
to  help  ye. 

MARTHA  (still  standing  by  the  door).     Thank  you. 

[Aunty  is  about  to  burst  forth  in  a  rage,  but  something  in 
Martha's  demeanor  restrains  her.  Neighbor  moves  over  to 
the  secretary  and  puts  down  her  bundle. 

NEIGHBOR.     I  just  brought  some  things  along  as  I  knew  ye'd 
want  somebody  in  the  house  with  ye. 
[Martha  glances  at  Aunty,  who  feigns  sleep. 

MARTHA  (firmly).     I'm  afraid  I  can't  ask  ye  to  stay.     Aunty 


364  MARTHA'S  MOURNING 

never  did  like  folk  about  and  I  know  she  wouldn't  want 

anybody  here  now. 
NEIGHBOR.     But  I'll  have  to  dress  her  out.     I've  helped  with 

most  all  the  folk  that's  died  in  the  last  twenty  years. 

[Aunty  shudders. 
MARTHA.     Thank  you  kindly,  but  I  couldn't  let  any  stranger 

touch  Aunty. 

NEIGHBOR.     Surely,  ye  don't  call  me  a  stranger. 
MARTHA.     I've  been  so  lonely  that  every  one  seems  like  a 

stranger  to  me  except  Aunty. 
NEIGHBOR  (spitefully).     Ye're  most  dutiful  to  her  memory, 

seein'  how  mean  she  treated  ye. 

[Aunty  shakes  her  fist  in  rage,  but  subsides  hastily  as  Martha 

looks  towards  her. 
MARTHA  (hotly).     She  never  was  mean.     She  always  shared 

everything  she  had  with  me. 

[Aunty  winces. 
NEIGHBOR  (seeing  her  chance  to  catch  her  up).     Even  her 

tippet,  I  suppose.     I  saw  ye  prinkin'  in  front  of  the  mirror 

while  ye're  Aunty  was  on  her  death-bed. 
MARTHA  (struck  with  a  sudden  inspiration).     Yes,  she  was 

tellin'  me  to  wear  it  at  her  funeral,  and  ye  wouldn't  have 

seen   me   if   ye   hadn't  been   peekin*   through   the  key 
hole. 

[Aunty  gasps  with  astonishment. 
NEIGHBOR  (confused,  but  not  yet  downed) .     Indeed,  that's  very 

generous.     I  was  goin'  to  offer  ye  some  mournin'. 
MARTHA  (hesitating).     I  haven't  a  black  dress. 
NEIGHBOR  (cheerfully) .     I  knew  I  could  be  of  some  use  to  ye. 

I'll  lend  ye  my  alpaca  skirt  and  widder's  hat  and  veil. 

They'd  be  grand  with  the  tippet. 
MARTHA.     Thank  you  kindly. 
NEIGHBOR   (going  to  secretary  and  picking  up  her  bundle), 

That's  a  grand  piece,  Martha,  ye  ought  to  sell  it.     I  know 

a  party  that  might  buy  it. 
MARTHA.     Aunty  held  on  to  it  through  thick  and  thin  and 

I  don't  want  to  part  with  it  either. 


MARTHA'S  MOURNING  365 

NEIGHBOR.  It  looks  as  if  ye  were  goin'  to  be  poor  enough 
when  yer  Aunty's  little  annuity  stops  short.  I  should 
think  ye'd  be  glad  of  the  money. 

MARTHA  (resignedly).     I  know  what's  comin'  to  me. 

NEIGHBOR  (turning  at  the  door).  I'll  bring  the  things  to- 
morrer.  But  Martha,  I'll  have  to  charge  ye  damages  if 
anything  happens  to  my  mournin'. 

MARTHA  (opening  the  door,  and  thoroughly  exasperated) .     No 
body  asked  for  yer  mournin' ;    and  I'd  rather  come  to 
Aunty's  funeral  in  this  old   calico   gown   than   touch  it 
after  that. 
[Shuts  the  door  in  the  neighbor's  face. 

AUNTY.     Martha. 

MARTHA.  Yes.  (Suddenly  realizing  she  still  has  on  tippet 
and  terrified  at  being  caught,  she  sinks  down  beside  the  sofa, 
a  quavering  bundle  of  sobs)  Oh,  Aunty,  I  never  did  it 
before. 

AUNTY  (patting  her  hair  and  comforting  her.  Speaking  ten 
derly).  Martha,  Martha,  how  I've  treated  ye  f  I  never 
knew  what  ye  was  like  till  I  saw  ye  standin'  up  to  that 
old  pry-eyes  that  came  peekin'  in  on  yer  trouble.  Why  ye 
used  to  slip  round  my  finger  like  a  piece  of  limp  dough. 
The  man  always  did  favor  ye,  Martha,  and  say  "Why 
don't  ye  send  Martha  to  prayer-meetin'  and  sociables  like 
other  girls."  I'd  say,  "Ah,  she's  a  poor  colorless  thing 
with  no  feelin's."  Oh,  Martha,  can  you  forgive  me  ? 

MARTHA  (weeping  joyfully) .  Aunty,  I  knew  ye  would  soften 
at  last,  but  its  the  Lord  ye  should  ask  for  forgiveness. 
Let's  ask  Him  together. 

AUNTY  (stiffening  up).  No,  no,  I  can't  pray.  (Fiercely) 
Impudent  old  weazel,  offerin'  ye  her  shabby  mournin'. 
Run  up  and  fetch  down  my  black  silk  and  bonnet  and 
widder's  veil.  You'll  find  'em  in  the  bottom  burrer  drawer. 
[While  Martha  is  gone,  Aunty  raises  herself  slightly  and 
gazes  vacantly  ahead,  lost  in  deep  thought.  Suddenly,  her 
face  brightens  as  she  conceives  some  brilliant  idea  and  she  sinks 
back  relieved,  with  a  softened  and  peaceful  smile.  Martha  re- 


366  MARTHA'S  MOURNING 

turns  in  a  few  minutes,  her  arms  full  of  clothes.     She  stands 
awkwardly  in  front  of  Aunty,  awaiting  directions. 

MABTHA.     What  shall  I  do  with  them  ? 

AUNTY  (with  business-like  briskness) .  Give  me  the  bonnet  and 
veil,  and  put  the  silk  over  there.  (Martha  moves  clumsily) 
Hurry,  I  haven't  much  time  left.  Now  bring  me  the  lamp 
and  the  work  basket. 

MARTHA  (worried).     Aunty,  what  are  ye  goin'  to  do? 

AUNTY  (spryly).     Trim  ye  a  decent  bit  of  mournin' ! 

MARTHA  (shocked).  Aunty,  ye  should  be  turnin'  yer  thoughts 
to  the  Lord. 

AUNTY.  I'll  relieve  yer  feelin's,  Martha,  by  tellin'  ye  that 
I  had  a  sort  of  revelation  from  the  Lord,  while  you  was 
upstairs,  showin'  me  how  I  could  make  ye  a  kind  of  ret 
ribution. 

MARTHA  (eagerly) .     A  vision,  Aunty  ?     What  was  it  ? 

AUNTY.  No,  it  was  just  an  idea.  I'll  tell  ye  about  it  by  and  by. 
But  part  of  its  trimmin'  the  mournin'.  Now  help  me  up. 

MARTHA  (raising  her).     But  this  doesn't  seem  quite  Christian. 

AUNTY.     Christian,  fiddle-sticks,  I'm  doin'  as  I  was  told. 

MARTHA  (submissively).     Well,  Aunty,  I  suppose  ye   know 
best.     Ye  always  was  one  fer  doin'  yer  own  way. 
[Aunty  groans  as  Martha  arranges  her. 

MARTHA  (soothingly).     Now,  what? 

AUNTY  (still  gasping  a  little  for  breath) .  Before  I  trim  the 
bonnet,  I  ought  to  tell  ye  there's  a  little  loose  board  with 
a  pine  knot  in  it  back  of  the  stove.  Ye  can  pry  it  up  with 
a  spoon  handle,  and  ye'll  find  an  old  stockin'  underneath. 
(Martha  obeys  her  in  blank  astonishment)  Bring  me  the 
stockin'.  (Feeling  it)  There's  a  wad  of  bills  in  this. 

MARTHA  (horrified).     But  haven't  we  always  paid  our  debts  ? 

AUNTY.  You  fool !  It's  the  money  I've  been  savin*  for  the 
last  twenty  years. 

MARTHA  (with  great  innocence).  Aunty,  you  mean  ye've  been 
skimpin'  and  savin'  out  of  yer  little  annuity  all  these 
years  just  for  me  ?  (Falls  on  her  knees,  kissing  Aunty's 
hand)  How  generous  of  ye. 


MARTHA'S  MOURNING  367 

[Aunty  is  too  much  taken  aback  by  her  misunderstanding  to 
explain  it.  She  is  confused  and  suffers  Martha's  caresses 
till  she  can  regain  her  self-control. 

AUNTY.  When  ye've  paid  for  the  funeral,  Martha, — and 
ye  best  give  me  a  costly  funeral,  it  shows  filial  piety,  - 
take  the  savin's  to  Deacon  Wolcott  and  ask  him  to  invest 
it  for  ye.  Ye'd  best  wear  yer  funeral  rig ;  he's  an  awful 
one  for  black.  And  promise  me,  Martha,  ye'll  never  let 
anybody  else  look  after  it,  even  if  ye  should  marry.  I 
don't  want  some  fool  spendin'  my  good  money. 

MARTHA.     Yes,  Aunty,  I  promise. 

[Aunty  pulls  a  piece  of  jet  out  of  the  stocking  and  begins  pinning 
it  against  the  bonnet. 

AUNTY.  Jet  ain't  regular  mournin',  but  it'll  spry  ye  up  a  bit. 
Don't  stand  there  like  a  lump  of  risin'  dough,  but  get  into 
my  black  silk.  I  want  to  see  it  on  ye. 

MARTHA  (astonished).  But,  Aunty,  you  was  savin'  it  to  be 
laid  out  in. 

AUNTY.  But  you  can  make  me  a  real  economical  shroud. 
Mind,  I  want  no  other  women  snivellin'  around.  I  cursed 
at  'em  all  when  the  man  died  and  nobody's  bothered  me 
since.  It's  profitable  to  be  wicked. 

MARTHA  (looking  distressed,  and  carefully  putting  on  the  dress) . 
But,  ye  been  savin'  it  so  long. 

AUNTY.  I  won't  have  ye  wearin'  pry-eyes'  shabby  stuff, 
and  my  good  silk  crumblin'  away  in  the  grave.  Come 
here,  I  want  to  try  on  the  bonnet.  (Martha  sets  it  awk 
wardly  on  the  back  of  her  head)  You  make  it  look  like  a 
hen  goin'  to  roost.  Kneel  down. 

(Martha  kneels  and  Aunty  pinches  and  pulls  at  the  bonnet 
till  it  is  quite  becoming  to  Martha's  gentle  face.  Loosening 
Martha's  hair)  Now,  ye're  less  like  a  drowned  mouse. 
Stand  off  and  let  me  see  the  dress. 

[Martha  has  already  gained  a  new  expression  of  self-confidence 
and  stands  smiling  gently. 

MARTHA.      Don't  it  crackle  grand  ? 

AUNTY  (surveying  it  critically) .     It'll  do  well  enough  under  the 


368  MARTHA'S  MOURNING 

tippet.     Miss  Flossy  can  alter  it  for  ye  afterwards. 
phatically)     Don't  do  it  yerself.     Ye  have  about  as  much 
style  as  a  canary.     (Gathering  up  the  veil)     Now,  come 
back,  I  want  to  hang  this. 
[Martha  gives  her  the  bonnet  and  sits  down  beside  her. 

MARTHA.     Let  me  hold  the  pins,  Aunty. 

AUNTY.  Now,  Martha,  when  I'm  dead  and  gone,  don't  hide 
away  by  yerself,  but  mingle  with  folk  and  go  to  prayer- 
meetin'  and  have  the  sewin'-circle  here. 

MARTHA  (with  a  smile).  That's  strange  advice  from  you, 
Aunty. 

AUNTY.  Yes,  and  open  the  front  parlor  and  give  them  some  of 
my  good  old  blackberry  cordial  to  clacker  over.  If  any  of 
the  men-folk  join  ye  after  meetin',  ask  'em  in,  and  be  real 
sociable  and  give  'em  some  of  yer  good  pie,  but  don't  give 
away  the  receipts,  Martha. 

MARTHA.     But  why,  Aunty  ? 

AUNTY.  It'll  make  the  women  talk  about  ye,  and  the  men 
folk  '11  soon  catch  on  to  what  a  good  cook  ye  are.  (Drap 
ing  the  veil  with  great  care)  It's  beginning  to  look  real 
stylish.  There,  I've  left  just  a  little  jet  peepin'  through. 
Now,  put  it  on  and  look  at  it. 

[Martha  takes  the  lamp  and  stands  in  front  of  the  mirror. 
She  hardly  recognizes  herself  and  beams  with  delight  at  her 
altered  image. 

MARTHA.  Miss  Flossy  herself  couldn't  hang  it  more  mourn 
ful. 

AUNTY  (surveying  her  work  with  great  satisfaction) .  The  Lord 
ought  to  give  me  an  awful  lot  of  credit  for  trimmin'  ye  a 
smart  bonnet,  Martha. 

MARTHA  (distressed).  It's  strange  ideas  ye've  been  gettin* 
from  the  Lord. 

AUNTY.  It  ain't  strange  He  should  be  rewardin*  ye  with  a 
husband,  is  it? 

MARTHA  (gasping,  and  putting  down  the  lamp  as  her  hand 
trembles) .  A  husband,  —  now  I  begin  to  understand.  Do 
you  think  any  one  would  ever  want  to  marry  me  ? 


MARTHA'S  MOURNING  369 

AUNTY.  Indeed,  why  else  should  I  be  expiatin'  for  my  sins 
by  tellin'  ye  now  to  catch  some  respectable,  easy-goin'  man. 

MARTHA.     And  was  that  the  revelation  ? 

AUNTY.  Certainly.  The  Lord  sends  strange  messengers.  It 
was  pry -eyes  set  me  on  the  road  to  salvation.  (Putting 
her  hand  into  the  stocking)  Here's  my  garnet  pin. 

MARTHA.     Uncle's  weddin'  present ! 

AUNTY.  Wear  it  to  meetin'  about  a  week  after  the  funeral. 
It'll  set  the  sewin'-circle  agog  and  they'll  argue  the  propriety 
of  it  back  and  forth,  with  the  men  on  yer  side  —  bein' 
born  contrary.  They'll  be  lookin'  fer  yer  jewels  by  the 
next  meetin'.  Then,  tell  'em  at  some  sewin'-circle  how 
yer  poor  dear  Aunty  asked  ye  always  to  wear  her  pin.  Let 
me  put  it  on.  (Martha  stoops  down  while  she  pins  it)  Now, 
put  on  the  tippet  and  walk  as  if  ye  was  comin'  down  the 
aisle.  (Martha  adjusts  the  tippet  and  moves  slowly  and 
solemnly  across  the  room,  almost  stately  in  her  flowing  dra 
peries,  with  a  new  look  of  tender  dignity)  That's  it,  that's 
it.  Give  me  a  glass  of  water,  Martha. 
(Martha  gives  her  a  drink.  She  sips  a  little  water  and  falls 
back  wearily.  Mariha  stoops  over  her  anxiously.  Feebly) 
Pray  for  me,  Martha. 

(Martha  kneels  in  prayer.  There  is  a  rapping  at  the  door, 
but  no  one  heeds  it.  Presently,  the  neighbor  pokes  her  head 
in  and  advances  cautiously  into  the  room,  bearing  a  large 
box.  She  creeps  up  behind  Martha,  staring  at  her  in  aston 
ishment.  She  studies  the  bonnet,  feels  the  veil  and  fur,  nod 
ding  her  head  approvingly.  She  notices  the  stocking  and 
open  jewel  case  on  the  sofa,  and  puts  out  her  hand  to  take 
them.  Aunty,  who  has  been  watching  through  half -closed 
eyes,  suddently  sits  up)  Get  out,  you  old  barn-cat !  Martha 
don't  want  your  mournin'.  She's  got  silks  of  her  own 
and  money  of  her  own. 

[She  falls  back.  Martha  gives  the  neighbor  a  look  of  contempt 
and  continues  kneeling  beside  the  sofa.  The  neighbor  slinks 
out. 

CURTAIN 


RYLAND 

THOMAS  WOOD  STEVENS 

MR.  THOMAS  WOOD  STEVENS  was  born  in  Daysville,  Il 
linois,  on  January  26,  1880.  He  graduated  from  Armour 
Scientific  Academy  in  1897  and  then  undertook  a  three 
years'  course  in  mechanical  engineering  at  Armour  Institute 
of  Technology,  Chicago.  He  founded  the  Blue  Sky  Press, 
Chicago,  and  was  at  one  time  literary  critic  to  the  Inland 
Printer.  In  1903  he  took  charge  of  the  Department  of 
Illustration  at  the  Art  Institute  of  Chicago,  and  in  1912  he 
became  lecturer  in  art  history  at  the  University  of  Wisconsin. 
In  1913  he  was  appointed  head  of  the  department  of  drama  at 
the  Carnegie  Institute  of  Technology,  which  position  he  holds 
to-day. 

He  is  the  author  of  "The  Lesser  Tragedy",  prize  story 
in  the  Metropolitan  Magazine  literary  competition,  1904 ; 
"The  Etching  of  Cities",  1913;  "Lettering",  191(5 ;  and  co 
author  of  "The  Morning  Road",  1902.  His  dramatic  works 
are:  "The  Chaplet  of  Pan"  (with  Wallace  Rice),  produced 
by  Donald  Robertson  in  1908;  "A  Pageant  of  the  Italian 
Renaissance",  1909;  "An  Historical  Pageant  of  Illinois", 
1909;  "Pageant  of  the  Old  Northwest",  1911;  "Independ 
ence  Day  Pageant"  (with  K.  S.  Goodman),  1911 ;  "Masques 
of  East  and  West"  (with  K.  S.  Goodman),  1915;  "The 
Pageant  of  Saint  Louis",  1914  ;  "The  Pageant  of  Newark", 
1916;  "The  Drawing  of  the  Sword"  (Red  Cross  Pageant), 
1917;  "Joan  of  Arc",  1918.  In  addition,  Mr.  Stevens 
has  contributed  many  articles  to  magazines  and  reviews. 

KENNETH  SAWYER  GOODMAN 

The  biography  of  Kenneth  Sawyer  Goodman  is  to  be  found 
with  the  play  "  The  Wonder  Hat  ",  page  270. 


RYLAND 

A   COMEDY 

BY  THOMAS  WOOD  STEVENS  AND  KENNETH 
SAWYER   GOODMAN 


"Ryland"  was  originally  produced  by  The  Stage  Guild 
for  the  Chicago  Society  of  Etchers,  February  22,  1912,  at 
the  Art  Institute,  Chicago. 

Original  Cast 

WILLIAM  WYNNE  RYLAND,  En 
graver       Frederick  K.  Cowley 

THE  GAOLER Ralph  Holmes 

HENRY      FIELDING,      Ryland's 

Pupil Roy  S.  Hambleton 

HADDRILL,  a  print-seller  .     .     .     Thomas  Wood  Stevens 
SIR  JOSHUA  REYNOLDS  .     .     .     Kenneth  Sawyer  Goodman 

MARY  RYLAND Gertrude  Spaller 

ANGELICA  KAUFFMAN     .     .     .     Elaine  Hyman 


COPYRIGHT,  1912,  BY  THOMAS  WOOD  STEVENS  AND  KENNETH  SAWYER  GOODMAN. 
All  rights  reserved. 

Reprinted  from  pamphlet  form  by  permission  of,  and  by  special  arrangement  with, 
Mr.  Thomas  Wood  Stevens,  Mr.  Kenneth  Sawyer  Goodman,  and  the  Stage  Guild. 

Application  for  the  right  of  performing  "  Ryland"  must  be  made  to  the  Stage  Guild, 
Railway  Exchange  Building,  Chicago. 


RYLAND 

SCENE.    Ryland' s  cell  in  Newgate.     Right,  window,  with  an 

engraving  screen  ;  a  table  and  stool ;  engraving  tools,  etc. ;  on  the 

wall  a  composition  by  Angelica  Kaufman.     Left,  a  bench  and 

a  barred  door,  leading  to  the  corridor.     Right  Center,  a  small 

table  with  breakfast  tray. 

Ryland  and  the  Gaoler  discovered. 

THE  GAOLER.  Your  breakfast,  Mr.  Ryland.  Your  last 
breakfast,  God  help  us  all !  Many's  the  good  man  I've 
seen  go  out  of  here  to  Tyburn,  housebreakers  and  mur 
derers  and  thieves,  but  never  a  great  artist,  Mr.  Ryland  — 
never  till  you. 

RYLAND.     So  I'm  to  be  hanged  to-morrow  morning,  eh  ? 

GAOLER.     Yes,  sir.     To-morrow  at  six. 

RYLAND.     Well  .  .  .  No  more  of  this    (indicating    the   en 
graving)  and  good-bye  to  that,  eh? 
[With  a  gesture  at  the  composition. 

GAOLER  (gloomily).     To-morrow  at  six,  sir. 

RYLAND.  Buck  up,  man.  It's  I,  not  you.  You  will  break 
fast  to-morrow. 

GAOLER.  It  has  been  very  pleasant,  having  you  here,  sir. 
And  profitable,  too. 

RYLAND.     I  dare  say. 

GAOLER.  Yes,  Mr.  Ryland,  I've  had  a  tidy  bit  from  the  gen 
tlemen  who  have  come  in  to  see  you.  Some  bacon,  sir  — 
I  can  recommend  it  —  none  of  the  prison  fare,  that.  And 
you've  been  most  comfortable  to  deal  with.  No  howling, 
no  shaking  the  bars,  no  cursing  at  night. 

RYLAND.     Noj  none  of  that,  I  hope. 


376  RYLAND 


GAOLER.     It's  because  you've  been  busy  with  the  plate,  there. 

The  picture-making  has  been  a  blessing  to  you.  Then, 

you've  never  given  up  hope  — 
RYLAND.     I  find  myself  hungry.     That's  strange. 
GAOLER.     Not  at  all,  sir.     Many  of  them  are  so.     (Pause) 

Mr.  Ryland,  might  I  make  so  bold  as  to  say,  it  would  be 

a  great  service  to  me,  if  you  would  get  another  reprieve ; 

work  a  week  longer  on  the  plate.    It  can't  be  anything  to 

you,  sir,  so  near  the  end,  or  I  wouldn't  be  asking  it. 
RYLAND.     It  would  be  a  service  to  you,  would  it  ? 
GAOLER.     You  could  work  at  your  engraving  — 
RYLAND.     I've  overworked  it  now. 
GAOLER.     Oh,  I'm  sorry  to  hear  that,  sir. 

[A  knock  outside.     Enter  Fielding  outside  the  grating. 
FIELDING.     May  I  speak  with  Mr.  Ryland? 
GAOLER.     I  don't  know;  it's  against  the  rules.     (Fielding 

gives  him  money)     Who  shall  I  say,  sir  ? 
FIELDING.     Mr.  Fielding.     You've  seen  me  often  enough. 
GAOLER.     To  be  sure,  Mr.  Fielding,  but  I  likes  to  observe 

the  formalities.     It'll  be  five  shillings,  sir. 
FIELDING.     Yesterday  it  was  only  two. 
GAOLER.     He'll  be  leaving  me  soon  —  I've  got  to  make  the 

best  of  him  while  he  lasts,  God  help  him. 

[He  takes  the  money,  unlocks  the  grating,  and  calls  to  Ryland. 
GAOLER.     Mr.  Fielding's  compliments  to  Mr.  Ryland. 

[Exit  Gaoler. 

RYLAND.     My  dear  Henry,  this  is  kind  of  you. 
FIELDING.     Oh,  Mr.  Ryland,  I  came  directly  I  could   get 

word  of  Lord  Wycombe's  decision  on  your  appeal  - 
RYLAND.     Oh,  the  pardon  ? 
FIELDING.     Yes,  sir  - 
RYLAND.     You'll  forgive  me  if  I  finish  my  breakfast.     I 

can't  offer  you  a  chair  — 
FIELDING.     Oh,  Mr.  Ryland ! 
RYLAND.     Well  —  well  ? 
FIELDING.     I  went  to  Lord  Wycombe's  secretary  as  soon  as 

he  was  out  of  his  bed.  .  .  .     Oh,  Mr.  Ryland ! 


RYLAND  377 


RYLAND.  Out  with  it !  Am  I  pardoned,  or  only  reprieved 
for  another  week  ? 

FIELDING.     Neither. 

RYLAND.     Come,  come  — 

FIELDING.  Neither,  sir.  Lord  Wy combe  denies  both  your 
appeals. 

RYLAND.     I've  lost  my  appetite.  .  .  . 

FIELDING  (leaning  over  him;  Ryland  looking  over  his  breakfast). 
He  said  you  had  been  three  times  reprieved,  that  you  might 
finish  this  plate;  that  his  lordship  had  been  more  than 
merciful,  considering  the  nature  of  your  crime  — 

RYLAND.  I  beg  you  not  to  mention  it,  Henry.  I  had  com 
mitted  no  crime. 

FIELDING.  Never  before,  he  said,  had  the  statute  in  so  grave 
a  matter  as  forgery  been  stayed,  and  in  your  case  only 
that  your  wife  might  not  be  left  unprovided  for. 

RYLAND.     I  understand  his  lordship's  mercy.  .  .  . 

FIELDING.  And  now,  he  says,  if  the  plate  is  still  unfinished, 
it  must  be  carried  on  by  another  hand. 

RYLAND.     That  will  not  be  necessary 

FIELDING.  He  said  that  your  wife  —  Oh,  Mr.  Ryland  !  .  .  . 
where  else  shall  I  go  ?  What  other  appeal  is  there  ? 

RYLAND  (gets  up  and  puts  his  hand  on  Fielding's  shoulder). 
My  poor  boy !  You  have  been  more  than  faithful.  I 
can't  be  altogether  worthless,  to  have  you  stick  to  me  like 
this.  Tell  me  —  you  will  take  care  of  her  ?  You  will  be 
as  devoted  to  her  as  you  have  been  to  me  ? 

FIELDING.     My  life,  Mr.  Ryland,  shall  be  spent  in  her  service. 

RYLAND.  I  dare  say.  (Moving  up  stage)  Well,  after  all, 
there's  a  satisfaction  in  knowing  the  next  day's  work.  It 
might  have  ended  three  week's  ago.  .  .  .  The  ride  in  the 
cart  will  be  pleasant.  The  air,  man !  I've  not  had  a  full 
breath  since  —  since  the  minions  of  the  law  broke  in  upon 
my  seclusion.  .  .  .  But  for  these  reprieves,  I  should 
have  had  it  over  and  done  with,  and  you  and  my  wife 
would  be  already  half  comforted  .  .  .  shall  I  say?  It's 
a  miserable  business,  this  shrinking  back  from  the  verge. 


378  RYLAND 


FIELDING.     Oh,  sir,  you  must  see  that  we  are  on  the  verge  — 

RYLAND.     I  am  on  the  verge,  Fielding. 

FIELDING.  For  God's  sake,  sir,  drop  this  pretense.  It's  one 
thing  to  jest  at  death  when  you're  safe  at  home.  It's 
another  when  you're  — ...  Until  to-day  I  never  dreamed 
that  you  .  .  .  that  you  could  not  escape.  We  must  make 
some  last  effort. 

RYLAND.  So  you  actually  expect  to  see  me  kicking  my  heels 
at  the  end  of  a  rope  ? 

FIELDING.  Oh,  sir,  you  must  see  it,  too.  You  must  think. 
You  must  give  me  orders.  If  you  sit  and  jest,  I  am  help 
less.  It  will  all  be  over  — 

RYLAND.  My  dear  boy,  what  is  there  you  can  do  ?  You  tell 
me  to  drop  the  pretense.  .  .  .  What  have  I  left?  I 
admit  I  never  thought  it  would  come  to  this.  I  still  be 
lieved  in  my  destiny.  It's  an  ignominious  end,  it  seems, 
.  .  .  and  I  must  meet  it  with  what  grace  I  may.  In  faith, 
it  matters  little  :  a  wasted  life  gone  out :  a  slender  ghost  of 
a  talent  strangled.  .  .  .  (Moves  over  to  the  table  where  the 
plate  is)  I'm  not  sorry  I've  had  this  respite,  Fielding. 
I've  made  a  good  plate  here,  and  in  this  have  paid  a  last 
courtesy  to  Mistress  Angelica.  I  hope  she  will  like  it  ... 
if  she  ever  comes  back  to  see  it.  She's  a  dem'd  fine  woman, 
Angelica  Kauffman,  and  this  is  as  good  a  thing  as  ever 
she  painted.  I  hope  she  likes  it.  ... 

FIELDING.  Could  Mistress  Kauffman  do  nothing  to  save 
you,  sir? 

RYLAND.  She's  a  white  moon,  lad !  She  rides  high  on  the 
winds  of  fame  these  days.  It  takes  a  long  time  for  a  cry 
of  pain  to  mount  that  far,  Fielding.  .  .  . 

FIELDING.     But  have  you  tried?     Have  you  written? 

RYLAND.  I  can  be  proud  on  occasion  .  .  .  even  with  a  rope 
around  my  neck.  Once  she  wasn't  so  far,  so  cold.  .  .  . 
But  that's  another  matter,  a  matter  that's  closed.  To 
morrow  .  .  .  tush,  I'm  content.  I'm  tired.  I'm  ready  to 
step  off. 

FIELDING.     But,  sir,  she  might  — 


RYLAND  379 


RYLAND.  No.  I  had  it  from  Sir  Joshua  at  the  trial.  She's 
in  Italy. 

FIELDING.  She's  here  in  London  !  I  saw  her  only  this  morn 
ing. 

RYLAND.     Say  that  again  ! 

FIELDING.     She's  here  in  London. 

RYLAND.  You  fool !  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  ?  You  stand 
there  and  blither  about  Lord  Wycombe's  secretary ,  when 
Angelica  Kauffman's  in  London.  ...  In  London  !  Why 
didn't  I  know  it  ?  I  did  know  it.  I  felt  it  through  these 
stifling  walls.  I  was  a  dolt  ...  I  thought  it  was  only 
Spring  in  the  air,  April  in  my  blood.  It  was  hope,  it  was 
life.  A  moment  ago  you  had  me  seeing  myself  on  Tyburn 
Hill !  And  all  the  time  I  knew  it  could  never  come  to  that. 

FIELDING.     What  am  I  to  do? 

RYLAND.  Bring  her  here.  Hunt  her  from  one  end  of  the 
town  to  the  other.  Bring  her  here,  lad;  I  must  talk  to 
her.  She  can  twist  the  Queen  around  her  little  finger. 
Through  the  Queen  she  can  get  me  a  royal  pardon. 

FIELDING.     The  time  is  short. 

RYLAND.     Time  enough  if  she  still  cares ! 
[  The  Gaoler  knocks  at  the  door. 

GAOLER.     A  lady  to  see  you,  sir. 

FIELDING.     Ah ! 

RYLAND.       Who  is  she  ? 

GAOLER.     Your  wife,  sir. 
RYLAND.     Show  her  in. 

[Fielding  goes  to  the  door  and  pays  the  Gaoler ;  Mary  Ryland 

comes  in,  and  runs  across  to  Ryland. 

MARY  RYLAND.       William ... 

RYLAND.     Good  morning,  my  dear. 

MARY  RYLAND.     Aren't  you  glad  to  see  me  ? 

RYLAND.     Why  shouldn't  I  be  glad  to  see  you? 

MARY  RYLAND.     You  look  disappointed.     You  haven't  kissed 

me. 
RYLAND.     I  beg  your  pardon  !     (He  kisses  her  hand,  and  turns 

to  Fielding)     Well,  why  don't  you  go  ? 


380  RYLAND 


FIELDING.     Where  shall  I  look  for  her  ? 

RYLAND.     Her  house  is  in  Golden  Street.     If  you  fail  there, 

go  to  Sir  Joshua.     Spend  what  you  need,  but  lose  no  time. 
MARY  RYLAND.     Has  something  happened  ?     Where  is  he  to 

go? 
RYLAND.     He  is  to  bring  Angelica  Kauffman  here.     He  has 

my  orders. 
MARY  RYLAND.     No,  I  say.     I'll  not  have  her  here.     I'll  not 

h--\ve  you  see  her.     I'll  not  allow  —  ... 
RYLAND.     Pardon  me,  my  dear.     He  shall  bring  her. 
MARY  RYLAND   (weeping).     And  I've  come  day  after  day, 

and  you've  treated  me  like  a  stranger  .  .  .  and  now  you're 

sending  for  her. 
FIELDING  (taking  a  step  toward  her).     It's  all  as  it  should  be, 

Mistress  Ryland. 
MARY    RYLAND.       You    tell    me    that,    Henry.       Do    you 

know?  .  .  . 

FIELDING.     I  know  there  is  need  for  her. 
MARY  RYLAND.     Then  do  as  you  think  right. 
FIELDING.     It's  not  that,  Mistress  Ryland.     It's  necessary, 

now  that  Lord  Wycombe  — 
RYLAND.     Sst !     Go.     (Fielding  goes  out)     My  dear,  I'm  not 

flattered  by  your  jealousy,  I  assure  you.     There  is  no  need 

for  you  to  question  me  —  and  Mistress  Kauffman  is  a 

great  artist.     I  must  have  her  see  this  plate  —  to-day. 

That  should  be  enough. 
MARY  RYLAND.     But,  William,  you  knew  her  before  you  ever 

saw  me,  and  it  hurts  me  to  think  —  ... 
RYLAND.     There,  there,  my  dear. 

[The  Gaoler  knocks  at  the  door. 
GAOLER.     Mr.  Haddrill,  on  important  business  with  Mr. 

Ryland. 
RYLAND.     Ask  Mr.  Haddrill  to  sit  down  outside.     You  can 

squeeze  an  extra  shilling  out  of  him  for  a  chair. 
MARY  RYLAND.     But,  William,  you  can't  keep  Mr.  Haddrili 

waiting. 
RYLAND.     To-day  it  is  my  privilege  to  keep  anybody  waiting. 


RYLAND  381 


MARY  RYLAND.     But  Mr.  Haddrill's  your  publisher. 

RYLAND.  He's  a  tradesman  to  whom  I'm  doing  a  favor.  A 
favor  by  which  you  are  to  profit,  not  I. 

MARY  RYLAND.     Don't  make  it  harder  for  me. 

RYLAND.     Mary,  I  want  a  few  moments  alone  with  you. 

MARY  RYLAND.  I  thought  you'd  rather  be  rid  of  me  ... 
that  you'd  rather  — 

RYLAND.  My  poor  child.  You  seem  to  forget  that  my  last 
plate,  the  thing  I've  let  them  stretch  out  my  life,  week  by 
week,  to  finish  —  for  your  benefit;  the  only  profitable 
thing  I  can  leave  you,  in  this  world,  is  a  copper  mirror 
fashioned  to  reflect  the  genius  of  Angelica  Kauffman. 

MARY  RYLAND.  It's  for  her  pleasure,  her  fame,  you've  been 
working,  not  forme.  You've  sent  Fielding  to  fetch 
her.  .  .  . 

RYLAND.  The  plate's  finished.  It  must  have  her  approval 
before  .  .  .  I  go. 

MARY  RYLAND.  Don't !  Don't  speak  of  the  end.  ...  I 
can't  bear  it.  I'm  your  wife. 

RYLAND.  Poor  child.  Poor  little  creature.  I  think  you  pity 
yourself  more  than  you  pity  me. 

MARY  RYLAND.     How  can  you  ?     How  can  you  ? 

RYLAND.  Why  all  this  snivelling  about  so  simple  a  thing  as 
death  ?  A  little  jaunt  from  here  to  somewhere  else  .  .  . 
a  step  off  into  the  empty  air.  My  dear,  it's  I  that  take  the 
step,  not  you. 

MARY  RYLAND.  Oh !  Oh,  how  can  you  go  on  about  it  this 
way? 

RYLAND.  Because  I  want  to  see  you  smile  again.  Because 
you're  young.  Because  I've  wasted  a  year  of  your  life, 
and  I'm  sorry  for  it.  ...  Because  I  want  you  to  under 
stand  that  if  it  happens  I've  come  to  the  end  of  my  lane, 
you  are  only  turning  into  yours.  .  .  and  the  hedgerows 
are  white  with  hawthorn  bloom.  You'll  see  the  green 
trees  in  the  Mall,  the  red  sun  over  the  chimney  pots,  the 
silver  river  when  you  walk  on  the  embankment  at  night. 

MARY  RYLAND.     But  the  loneliness,  the  separation  ! 


382  RYLAND 


RYLAND  (losing  patience  a  little).  Tush!  Such  separations 
are  only  terrible  when  two  people  love  each  other. 

MARY  RYLAND.       But  I  love  YOU. 

RYLAND.  No,  I  dazzled  you.  .  .  .  And  now  I  want  to  make 
it  easy  for  you. 

HADDRILL  (heard  outside).  I  won't  wait  any  longer,  Ryland. 
This  business  is  urgent.  (He  comes  in,  stops  on  seeing  Mis 
tress  Ryland,  and  bows  to  her  rather  curtly)  Your  servant, 
madam. 

RYLAND.     To  what  am  I  indebted,  Mr.  Haddrill  ? 

HADDRILL.     In  Mistress  Ryland's  presence  —  ... 

MARY  RYLAND.  I  pray  you  not  to  consider  my  feelings,  Mr. 
Haddrill. 

HADDRILL.  Egad,  madam,  it's  for  you  to  say.  (Turns  to 
Ryland)  Here  you've  put  me  in  a  fix !  They  say  you've 
no  more  reprieve,  no  chance  of  pardon.  That  you  hang 
at  sunrise  to-morrow.  You  should  have  considered  my 
interest.  You  should  have  given  me  more  time. 

MARY  RYLAND.     No  reprieve  ...  no  pardon ! 

HADDRILL  (paying  no  attention  to  her).  Is  the  plate  done, 
signed,  ready  to  print  ?  Don't  you  see  I've  only  the  day 
for  the  edition,  and  the  advertisement  and  all,  or  I'll  miss 
the  big  sale  at  the  stalls  along  the  Tyburn  road  ? 

BYLAND.  Ah,  that  would  be  a  pity.  It's  ready,  you  see. 
[Holds  up  plate. 

HADDRILL.  Ready !  .  .  .  But  the  ink  won't  be  dry  before 
they  have  the  halter  on  you.  And  I'd  planned  to  make 
it  a  great  day  in  the  trade,  —  a  great  day,  sir,  for  the  art 
of  England.  It's  a  wonderful  opportunity  for  a  pushing 
man  —  the  last  plate  and  the  artist  hanged  to-day  ...  I 
had  made  some  very  striking  preparations,  Ryland. 

RYLAND.     Hadn't  you  forgotten  something,  Mr.  Haddrill  ? 

HADDRILL.  Not  a  thing.  .  .  .  But  you  give  me  so  little 
time.  I  plan  to  sell  the  prints  at  my  shop,  in  Saint  Paul's 
Churchyard,  at  Temple  Bar,  at  stalls  along  the  way  to 
Tyburn;  and  I  have  six  most  lugubrious-looking  fellows 
—  picked  them  out  for  their  woebegone  faces  —  all  with 


RYLAND  383 


crepe  on  their  hats,  sir,  to  sell  them  at  Tyburn.  Then  I've 
got  out  broadsides,  sir;  and  I've  had  a  ballad  written  to 
sell  at  the  hanging  —  all  about  you  and  your  crime,  and 
the  prints  for  sale  at  my  shop.  Here  it  is,  sir  —  like  to 
look  at  it  ?  (He  hands  Ryland  a  ballad)  And  now  there's 
so  little  chance  to  get  'em  out.  I  take  it  very  hard,  Ryland. 

RYLAND.     This  is  miserable  stuff. 

HADDRILL.  I'd  have  you  know,  sir,  the  same  author  wrote 
one  last  month  for  the  celebrated  highwayman,  Jack 
Sparrow.  It  took  the  town  by  storm. 

RYLAND.     My  name  will  go  down  in  illustrious  company.  .  .  . 

HADDRILL.     Perhaps  a  little  revision,  with  our  help  ? 

RYLAND.  No,  let  it  serve  as  it  is.  I've  a  bargain  to  strike 
with  you,  Haddrill. 

HADDRILL.  I  thought  you'd  struck  a  pretty  stiff  bargain 
already,  Ryland.  I'm  to  pay  your  wife  five  shillings 
to  the  pound  more  than  I'd  give  any  living  engraver. 
I've  even  advanced  you  ten  pounds.  I  call  it  sharp 
practice  —  ... 

RYLAND.  These  are  my  final  conditions,  Mr.  Haddrill.  You 
offer  five  shillings.  That  won't  do.  You  must  double  it. 

HADDRILL.       Double  it  ! 

RYLAND.  All  proofs  must  be  numbered  in  the  presence  of 
Mr.  Fielding. 

HADDRILL.     You  mean  you  don't  trust  me,  Ryland  ? 

RYLAND.  Remember,  I  shan't  be  here.  I  trust  Fielding. 
You've  advanced  ten  pounds.  Before  the  plate  leaves 
my  hands  she  must  have  fifty. 

HADDRILL.     Egad,  you're  driving  it  altogether  too  hard. 

RYLAND.  No,  Haddrill,  but  I  understand  my  position.  I'm 
a  public  figure  to-day.  London  will  stand  tiptoe  all  night 
to  see  me  hanged  in  the  morning.  Another  condition.  I 
must  see  the  contract  you  sign  with  my  relict  widow,  Mary 
Ryland  here.  I  must  see  you  sign  it  in  the  presence  of 
Fielding  and  Sir  Joshua.  They'll  hold  you  to  it. 

HADDRILL.  Look  you,  Mr.  Ryland,  I  agree  to  the  double 
royalty.  But  this  goes  too  far,  too  dem'd  far  !  I'm  a  man 


384  RYLAND 


of  my  word,  sir.  I'll  not  be  treated  like  a  shuffling  huckster, 
like  a  cheating  fishmonger,  like  a  dem'd  criminal.  I'm  a 
communicant  of  the  Church  of  England,  sir!  I  won't 
be  bound  hand  and  foot. 

RYLAND.     I  thought  not. 

HADDRILL.  Deuce  take  you,  sir !  Blast  your  eyes,  sir ! 
What  do  you  mean  by  that,  sir  ? 

RYLAND.  Only  this.  You  promise  quickly  enough,  but  I 
mean  to  see  that  you  perform. 

HADDRILL  (taking  up  his  hat).  Very  well,  sir.  Very  well. 
I'm  sorry  you're  so  headstrong. 

RYLAND.  You  know  how  many  printsellers  there  are  in 
London.  .  .  .  All  waiting  for  this  chance. 

HADDRILL.     You  won't  abate  your  conditions? 

RYLAND.     Not  a  penny. 

HADDRILL.  I'm  sorry  I  can't  take  you.  .  .  .  And  I  had  it 
all  planned. 

RYLAND.  You  had  it  planned !  A  clumsy,  niggardly  plan 
you  had.  I  know  what  the  town  will  think.  I  know  how 
the  town  will  buy.  Six  hang-dog  hucksters  with  crepe 
on  their  hats  !  That's  like  you,  Haddrill ;  no  taste  what 
ever.  Twelve  young  gentlemen,  dressed  in  the  height  of 
fashion  —  veritable  macaronis,  —  that's  what  you  should 
have,  and  them  selling  the  prints  like  mad,  and  all  for  the 
sake  of  charity  to  a  pretty  widow.  .  .  .  Flowers!  My  cart 
to  be  loaded  with  violets  when  it  stops  at  St.  Sepulchre's. 
It's  an  occasion,  sir,  when  the  King's  Engraver  rides  to 
Tyburn  !  At  Holborn  Bar  you  will  have  them  fetch  me  a 
flagon  of  old  port  — 

HADDRILL.     But  think  of  the  expense,  man,  the  expense ! 
RYLAND.     Will  you  stick  at  a  few  pounds  at  a  time  like  this  ? 
I  wouldn't  deal  in  sixpences  on  a  great  day  for  the  art  of 
England. 
HADDRILL.     You  dealt  in  thousands,  and  see  where  it  brought 

you.     Think  of  me. 

RYLAND.  Why  should  I  think  of  you !  I'm  the  one  to  be 
hanged,  Haddrill,  not  you.  Broadsides,  and  a  ballad !  I 


RYLAND  385 


can  make  a  speech  from  the  scaffold  that'll  ring  through  the 
town  until  this  plate's  worn  thin  as  paper.  Where  will 
your  ballad  and  your  broadsides  be  then  ? 

HAD  DRILL.     You'll  make  a  speech  ? 

EYLAND.  Aye,  that  I  will.  But  it  depends  on  you,  Had- 
drill,  what  sort  of  speech. 

HADDRILL.     You're  a  genius,  Ryland. 

RYLAND.  The  speech  will  cost  you  twenty  pounds  extra  to 
Mistress  Ryland  —  mentioned  in  the  contract. 

HADDRILL  (vwiting) .  Mentioned  in  the  contract.  Violets 
at  Saint  Sepulchre's;  a  flagon  of  port  at  Holborn  Bar: 
twenty  pounds  extra  for  a  speech  on  the  scaffold ;  twelve 
young  gentlemen  —  no  crepe  on  their  hats.  You're  a 
genius,  Ryland  —  but  you  bargain  like  a  Jew. 

RYLAND.     I  must  protect  Mistress  Ryland's  interests. 

MARY  RYLAND.       Oh,  oh  ! 

HADDRILL.     You'll  give  me  the  plate  immediately  ? 

RYLAND.     When  you  bring  me  the  contract. 

HADDRILL.  I  give  you  my  oath  I'll  treat  your  wife  hand 
somely.  I  had  something  else  in  mind.  ...  A  very 
pretty  idea,  and  quite  genteel,  too ;  quite  up  to  your  tone. 
If  Mistress  Ryland  would  sit  in  my  shop  for  a  week  after 
the  hanging  and  sell  the  prints  herself  —  ... 

MARY  RYLAND.     Oh  !  the  shame  of  it. 

RYLAND.     How  much  will  you  pay  her  ? 

MARY  RYLAND.     William,  William,  how  can  you  ?  .  .  . 

RYLAND.  Hush,  my  dear.  Mr.  Haddrill  will  think  you  are 
over-sensitive.  This  is  a  matter  of  business. 

HADDRILL.  It  would  have  a  great  effect.  You  might  men 
tion  it  in  your  speech.  .  .  . 

MARY  RYLAND.  This  is  monstrous.  .  .  .  This  is  terrible. 
I'll  have  nothing  to  do  with  it.  I  won't  listen.  I  - 

RYLAND.  You  see,  Haddrill,  there  is  still  some  delicacy  of 
feeling  left  in  England. 

HADDRILL.  I  thought  it  most  genteel,  most  suitable.  Very 
-  well,  touching.  But  it's  for  Mistress  Ryland  to  say. 

RYLAND.     She  appears  to  object. 


386  RYLAND 


HADDRILL.  At  least  she'll  be  at  Tyburn  .  .  .  dressed  in 
black,  when  the  young  gentlemen  sell  the  prints.  She'll 
be  where  the  crowd  can  see  her  ?  It  would  help  amazingly. 

RYLAND.  Surely,  my  dear,  you  can't  refuse  him  that  much. 
It's  only  what  any  dutiful  wife  would  be  expected  to  do, 
under  the  circumstances.  .  .  .  You'll  have  everyone's 
sympathy. 

HADDRILL.  Very  fitting,  very  proper,  I'm  sure.  Have  you 
a  black  dress,  Mistress  Ryland? 

MARY  RYLAND.  William,  this  is  a  nightmare.  .  .  .  Tell 
me  I'm  not  awake,  William. 

RYLAND.  There,  there,  child  !  Go  with  Mr.  Haddrill.  He'll 
take  you  to  a  draper's.  Be  sure  you  get  a  becoming  frock 
—  he  has  no  taste. 

MARY  RYLAND.       No,  no  ! 

HADDRILL.  Come,  madam.  I'll  bring  you  back  when  I 
fetch  the  contract. 

RYLAND.     Yes,  child,  go.     I'm  expecting  other  visitors.  .  .  . 
Go  on  with  your  preparations,  Mr.  Haddrill. 
[Haddrill  and  Mistress  Ryland  start  to  go  out;  as  they  turn 
away,  Ryland  laughs  aloud,  and  Haddrill  faces  about. 

RYLAND.     But  what  if  I  shouldn't  be  hanged  ? 

HADDRILL.     Good  Lord ! 

RYLAND.     Do  you  think  there's  a  reasonable  doubt  ? 

HADDRILL  (thinking  it  over  and  smiling  grimly) .  No,  Ryland, 
I  don't.  .  .  .  But  I  confess  you  gave  me  a  turn. 

RYLAND.     Au  revoir,  Mr.  Haddrill. 

[Haddrill  again  turns  toward  the  door,  finds  it  barred,  the 
Gaoler  with  his  hand  on  the  lock.  Haddrill  steps  toward  the 
door,  but  the  Gaoler  makes  no  move  to  open  it. 

HADDRILL.     Den  of  thieves. 

[He  pays  the  Gaoler  and  goes  out.  Ryland  hums  a  line  of 
song,  and  moves  about  the  table,  putting  his  proofs  and 
materials  in  order.  Fielding's  voice  is  heard  outside  the  door. 

FIELDING.     Mr.  Ryland,  Mr.  Ryland.     I've  seen  her.  .  .  . 

RYLAND.     She's  coming? 

FIELDING. 


RYLAND  387 


RYLAND.     Alone  ? 

FIELDING.     No.  .  .  .     She's  bringing  Sir  Joshua. 

RYLAND.     The  devil ! 

GAOLER.     I  don't  call  this  fair  to  me,  Mr.  Ryland. 

RYLAND.  My  dear  man,  you've  spoken  yourself  of  the  gen 
erous  treatment  you've  had  from  me  and  my  friends.  Let 
this  pass,  don't  be  grasping.  .  .  .  Besides,  there's  a  lady 
coming  —  and  a  gentleman.  They'll  pay  handsomely. 
In  fact,  it  would  be  worth  your  while  to  bring  in  another 
chair. 

GAOLER.  I've  no  wish  to  be  hard  with  you,  Mr.  Ryland,  but 
there  are  rules. 

RYLAND.     I  know.     You  make  them  yourself. 

FIELDING  (outside).     Am  I  to  come  in,  Mr.  Ryland? 

RYLAND  (putting  on  his  coat).  No.  You've  done  your  share. 
Wait  and  see  that  this  .  .  .  butler  welcomes  them  properly. 
[The  Gaoler  brings  in  the  chair,  and  goes  out.  Ryland  moves 
the  chair  so  that  Angelica  and  Sir  Joshua  must  sit  far  apart, 
and  hums  the  song  again.  The  door  opens. 

GAOLER.  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds.  Mistress  Angelica  Kauff- 
man. 

[The  Gaoler  goes  out,  smiling  broadly,  as  the  visitors  have 
been  generous. 

SIR  JOSHUA  REYNOLDS.  I  trust  you'll  pardon  my  intrusion, 
Mr.  Ryland.  But  ladies  of  fashion  .  .  .  gentleman's  apart 
ment  .  .  .  you  understand.  Even  in  so  irreproachable 
a  place  as  Newgate. 

ANGELICA  KAUFFMAN  (crossing  Sir  Joshua).  It  grieves  me 
deeply,  Mr.  Ryland  —  ... 

RYLAND  (to  Angelica).  Couldn't  you  have  trusted  me  enough 
to  come  alone  ? 

SIR  JOSHUA  (adjusting  his  ear  trumpet).     Eh,  what's  that? 

ANGELICA.  Mr.  Ryland  spoke  of  his  sense  of  the  honour  you 
do  him  in  coming,  Sir  Joshua. 

SIR  JOSHUA.  Ah,  did  he  say  that?  Well,  well,  where's  the 
plate?  We  came  to  see  the  plate  you've  engraved  from 
Mistress  Kauffman's  picture. 


388  RYLAND 


[Ryland  holds  up  the  plate,  bows  Sir  Joshua  to  the  chair, 

extreme  right,  and  goes  over  to  Angelica,  handing  her  the 

plate. 
RYLAND  (to  Angelica).     It  was  more,  much  more  than  the 

plate.  .  .  . 

SIR  JOSHUA.     Eh,  what's  that  ?     A  little  more  distinctly,  sir. 
RYLAND    (to  Angelica).     Confound  your   dragon.     (To  Sir 

Joshua)     I  wish  to  consult  Mistress  Kauffman  about  the 

drawing  of  the  arm. 
SIR  JOSHUA.     Eh  ?    Oh.  .  .  .    Ah,  the  drawing.     I  shouldn't 

examine  it.     Better  let  it  pass. 

ANGELICA.     Oh,  lud,  sir,  I  scarcely  know  how  to  take  you. 
SIR  JOSHUA.     Always  said,  dear  lady,  your  art  .  .  .  tran 
scends  mere  drawing. 
ANGELICA.     Ah,  the  kind  lies  he  tosses  to  the  vanity  of  his 

friends.     Dear  Sir  Joshua. 
SIR  JOSHUA.     Well,  sir,  have  you  nothing  to  show  ?     No  trial 

proofs?     Let  me  see  the  work,  sir,  and  I'll  toss  you  no 

kind  lies.     I've  an  engagement. 
RYLAND.     Give  it  to  him,  madam,  and  for  God's  sake  grant 

me  a  moment's  speech  with  you  apart. 
SIR  JOSHUA.     If  you  desire  my  criticism,  Mr.  Ryland,  you 

must  speak  more  distinctly. 
ANGELICA  (hands  a  proof  to  Sir  Joshua) .     Do  me  the  honor, 

sir.     (Referring  to  the  plate)  This  is  all  my  intention  in 

the  cartoon,  Mr.  Ryland.     You  have  a  wonderful  gift  of 

patience. 
RYLAND.     Not  patience,  Mistress,  but  an  exquisite  pleasure. 

...  to  follow  your  fancy,  your  sentiment.  .  .  . 
SIR  JOSHUA.     It  does  you  credit,  sir  —  and  the  lady  as  well. 

Admirable.  .  .  .     Though  I  see  nothing  in  it  to  stay  the 

course  of  justice. 

RYLAND  (with  lofty  resignation).     So  you  believe  it  to  be  jus 
tice,  sir? 
SIR  JOSHUA.     My  belief  has  no  weight,  Ryland.  .  .  .     But 

now  that  this  is  done,  and  the  legal  pother  over  with,  what 

are  you  going  to  do  with  it  ? 


RYLAND  389 


RYLAND.  If  it  has  Mistress  Kauffman's  approval,  what  do 
I  care  —  what  they  do  with  it  ? 

SIR  JOSHUA.  You  take  it  too  lightly.  The  plate  must  be 
worth  money,  and  your  obligations  to  your  — 

RYLAND  (glancing  toward  Angelica).  Spare  me  that,  Sir 
Joshua,  I  beg  you.  What  is  money,  to  a  man  who  lodges 
here  for  the  last  night  ? 

SIR  JOSHUA.  Rubbish  !  Your  affairs  should  be  left  in  order. 
.  .  .  That  is  the  least  you  can  do  for  — 

RYLAND.  Do  you  not  understand,  sir,  that  this  pains  me 
deeply.  Money  has  been  the  shadow,  the  strain  of  discord, 
the  flaw  in  the  metal.  .  .  .  Money  has  been  my  ruin 
.  .  .  and  you  ask  me  to  spend  my  last  hours  haggling  — 

SIR  JOSHUA.  Calm  yourself,  sir.  Haddrill,  I  suppose,  brings 
it  out.  I'll  look  to  this  for  you. 

RYLAND.  That  is  more  than  I  have  a  right  to  ask  of  you, 
Sir  Joshua. 

SIR  JOSHUA.  Tush,  tush.  I'm  not  speaking  of  your  rights, 
but  in  the  interest  of  your  — 

RYLAND.  Haddrill  will  attend  to  everything.  He's  bring 
ing  me  a  contract.  He's  a  very  generous  fellow,  Haddrill. 
I  shall  sign  it,  Sir  Joshua,  without  reading. 

SIR  JOSHUA.  Not  without  my  reading.  .  .  .  Must  take  care 
of  you,  even  if  you  choose  to  hang  yourself. 

ANGELICA  (protesting  at  the  word).     Oh,  Sir  Joshua. 

RYLAND.     I  thank  you  for  that,  Mistress. 

GAOLER  (a*  the  door).  Mr.  Haddrill  is  back.  Says  he's 
forgotten  something.  Shall  I  admit  him,  Mr.  Ryland? 

SIR  JOSHUA.  Very  fortunate.  .  .  .  Show  him  in.  I'll  ar 
range  this  matter  now  .  .  .  take  care  of  all  the  quibbles 
before  they  come  up. 

RYLAND.  Sir  Joshua,  I  beg  you  not  to  afflict  me.  I  have 
only  a  few  hours  .  .  .  and  this  is  torture.  If  you  are  in 
flexible  in  your  kindness  toward  me,  go  to  Haddrill  and 
do  what  you  can  in  my  behalf.  It's  more  than  I  ought  to 
ask  .  .  .  and  I  hope  you  will  not  find  I  have  been  too  heed- 


390  RYLAND 


SIR  JOSHUA.  It  should  be  done  in  your  presence,  but  you're 
so  dem'd  improvident. 

RYLAND.  I  am  not  so  improvident  as  to  be  ungrateful,  sir. 
(He  bows  Sir  Joshua  out  and  turns  to  face  Angelica)  You 
at  least  have  a  sympathy  for  me,  Mistress ;  you  who  un 
derstand  so  well  the  delicacy  of  my  feelings  in  an  hour  like 
this. 

ANGELICA.  I  hardly  know.  This  is  all  so  shocking,  so  ter 
rible.  I  am  .  .  . 

RYLAND.  Dear  lady,  I  have  been  a  brute  to  drag  you  here, 
you,  who  live  in  the  glow  and  the  music  ...  to  see  a  man 
in  this  hopeless  gloomy  cell,  a  poor  devil  who  is  about  to 
die  — 

ANGELICA.     Please  don't  ....     I  shall  faint. 

RYLAND.  I  beg  you  not  to  faint.  I  will  speak  of  other  days, 
and  you  shall  listen  —  out  of  charity.  It  doesn't  so  much 
matter  to  me  now ;  I've  done  with  it  all.  But  it  was  hard 
to  face  the  end  without  seeing  you  again.  Now  I  can  go. 
.  .  .  I'm  not  unready. 

ANGELICA.     What  difference  can  seeing  me  make  ? 

RYLAND.  What  difference?  ...  I  ride  to  Tyburn  with  a 
vision  of  you  in  my  eyes,  the  sound  of  your  voice  in  my 
ears,  the  touch  of  your  pity  on  my  defeated  heart.  .  .  . 
What  difference  ?  .  .  .  If  you  had  not  come,  I  should  have 
gone  out  of  here  with  the  gajjows  swinging  before  me,  and 
my  misspent  years  blowing  in  my  face. 

ANGELICA.  This  is  very  sentimental,  Ryland.  I  hardly 
imagined  that  you  .  .  .  that  I  — 

RYLAND.  That  it  meant  so  much  to  me,  when  you  last  re 
fused  me? 

ANGELICA.  There,  there,  Ryland.  You  knew  it  was  impos 
sible. 

RYLAND.     I  know.  .  .  .     You  thought  you  loved  — 

ANGELICA.  I  beg  you  not  to  speak  of  him.  He  was  un 
worthy,  and  he  is  gone  .  .  .  out  of  my  life. 

RYLAND  (suddenly  hilarious).  And  out  of  England!  Egad, 
why  shouldn't  I  speak  of  him.  The  town  talked  on  noth- 


RYLAND  391 


ing  else :  The  distinguished  Count  de  Horn  shows  an  in 
terest  in  the  incomparable  Mistress  Kauffman;  he  is  ac 
cepted;  he  isn't;  he  is.  ...  They  are  married;  they 
are  not ;  they  are.  .  .  .  He  is  an  impostor ;  he  is  a  prince 
in  disguise;  he  is  the  son  of  his  father's  cook!  and  then 
.  .  .  pouf !  He's  gone. 

ANGELICA.  You  can  not  imagine,  sir,  this  is  pleasant  to 
me. 

RYLAND.  Nor  was  it  pleasant  to  me.  The  Count  de  Horn 
.  .  .  the  son  of  his  father's  cook  .  .  .  and  a  bigamist ! 
Mistress  Kauffman  will  prosecute;  she  will  not;  she 
will.  .  .  .  He  was  a  criminal.  He  had  imposed  upon 
your  faith,  your  heart,  your  honour.  You  could  have  let 
him  hang.  .  .  .  But  instead  of  that  you  gave  him  his 
freedom  and  five  hundred  pounds. 

ANGELICA.     Three  hundred. 

RYLAND.     Generous  soul ! 

ANGELICA.  I  will  not  remain  here,  sir,  to  be  taunted  with 
my  past  misfortunes. 

RYLAND.     Nothing  was  further  from  my  intention. 

ANGELICA.     Then  why  do  you  recall  this  ? 

RYLAND.  I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  .  .  .  It's  my  whim  to 
marvel,  just  for  the  moment,  at  the  charity  which  gives  a 
scoundrel,  who  had  wronged  you,  his  freedom  and  three 
hundred  pounds,  while  you  see  a  man  who  has  devoted  his 
life  to  the  spreading  of  your  fame,  a  man  who  has  loved 
you,  and  who  still  loves  you,  go  to  the  gallows  without 
the  compliment  of  a  tear. 

ANGELICA.  This  is  most  unjust.  You  have  given  me  neither 
time  nor  proper  occasion  for  weeping,  Ryland. 

RYLAND  (coming  close  to  her) .  And  it  does  not  occur  to  you, 
now  that  you  see  me  again  ?  .  .  . 

ANGELICA  (she  backs  toward  the  door) .  Nothing  occurs  to  me ; 
I'm  all  upset  by  your  impudence. 

RYLAND.  Unkind,  unkind !  When  this  is  my  last  living 
day,  and  you  could,  if  you  chose  .  .  . 

ANGELICA,     If  you  come  a  step  nearer,  I  shall  call  Sir  Joshua. 


392  RYLAND 


RYLAND  (stops  and  looks  at  her,  his  eyes  filled  with  admiration). 
The  winter  in  Italy  has  agreed  with  you.  .  .  .  I've 
never  seen  you  look  so  ...  dangerous,  Angelica. 

ANGELICA.     You  mustn't  call  me  that.  .  .  .     My  name  — 

RYLAND.  That  was  what  I  called  you  when  we  danced  to 
gether  at  Tunbridge,  the  night  you  laughed  with  me  over 
Fuseli's  proposal;  Angelica  I  called  you  when  we  sat 
together  on  Richmond  Hill,  and  watched  the  moon  trace 
out  the  Thames  with  silver  fingers ;  Angelica  I  called  you 
that  divine  day  in  Windsor  Forest,  —  the  day  I  first  told 
you  I  loved  you ;  —  Angelica  — 

ANGELICA.  You  play  upon  the  word,  Ryland,  as  though  it 
were  a  refrain. 

RYLAND.  The  refrain  of  a  living  love,  dearest ...  in  the  song 
of  a  dead  life. 

ANGELICA.     Is  it  a  dead  life,  William  ?  .  .  . 

RYLAND.  It  dies  at  sunrise  .  .  .  and  all  for  a  few  pounds  un 
wisely  borrowed,  a  few  creditors  inhumanly  clamorous, 
and  the  lies  of  a  paper-maker  who  hated  me. 

ANGELICA.     What  is  it  they  accuse  you  of? 

RYLAND.     Forgery. 

ANGELICA.     And  you  are  not  guilty. 

RYLAND.  Guilty?  ...  I  have  borrowed  unwisely,  I  tell 
you.  I  was  hungry  for  the  sight  of  ...  Italy.  Is  that 
guilt  ?  There  was  a  matter  of  a  note  —  an  India  com 
pany  note.  Thirty  men  had  signed  it,  and  not  one  of  them 
at  the  trial  could  say  the  hand  was  not  his  own.  (She 
makes  a  gesture  of  inquiry)  This  paper-maker  ...  he 
swore  he  had  made  the  paper  on  which  it  was  written  a 
year  after  the  date  of  the  note.  Guilty?  .  .  .  That 
would  have  been  criminally  stupid,  and  of  stupidity  no 
one  has  ever  accused  me.  .  .  .  For  all  that,  the  court 
passed  sentence. 

ANGELICA.     And  is  there  no  appeal? 

RYLAND.  What  need  of  appeal,  if  it  no  longer  touches 
you? 

ANGELICA.     But  if  it  does  touch  me  ? 


RYLAND  393 


RYLAND.     We  have  tried  what  we  could.  ...     I  have  been 

three  times  reprieved,  to  finish  this  plate.     It  is  done.     His 

Majesty  is  inexorable.     But  with  you  in  England,  with 

the  lure  of  you  — 
ANGELICA.     Don't  tell  me  you  would  not  make  the  effort 

except  as  I  inspired  it. 
RYLAND.     Why  ? 

ANGELICA.     I  could  not  believe  you. 
ROLAND.     The   truth,    then :    you    can    reach    the    Queen. 

Through  her,   King  George.     Till  you  came,   I  had  no 

voice  to  reach  him.     You  can  have  what  you  ask.     Let  it 

be  ...  my  life. 

ANGELICA.     You  want  me  to  go  to  the  Queen  ? 
RYLAND.     Yes ! 
ANGELICA.     This  would  compromise  me  more  deeply  than  you 

can  imagine. 
RYLAND  (sardonically).     You  have  not  imagined  how  high 

it  will  hang  me  .  .  .if  you  refuse. 
ANGELICA.     And  if  I  fail  ? 
RYLAND.     I  shall  not  murmur.  .  .  .     But  I  do  not  believe 

you  can  fail. 
ANGELICA.     Willliam.     William.  .  .  .     No,  don't  come  near 

me.     I  will  go.     This  must  be  secret  — 
RYLAND.     You  can  trust  me. 
ANGELICA.     And  there  must  be  no  more  talk  of  love  ...  no 

notes,  messages,  flowers,  tokens.     You  are  to  be  merely  a 

man  —  an  artist  —  in  whose  work  I  take  a  great  interest 

...  an  innocent  man  whom  I  endeavor  to  deliver  from  an 

unjust  death  — 
RYLAND.     Stop.     I  agree  to  the  secrecy,  but  I  do  not  pledge 

myself  not  to  love  you. 

ANGELICA.       YOU  must. 

RYLAND.  I  will  not  take  life  on  these  terms.  Secrecy  —  dis 
cretion  —  yes.  .  .  .  You  can  not  require  that  I  forget  you. 

ANGELICA.  It  cuts  me  .  .  .  you  have  been  faithful  to  a  mem 
ory  so  long.  Perhaps,  when  this  is  over,  I  may  permit  you 
to  remember  again. 


394  RYLAND 


RYLAND  (seizing  her  hand  and  kissing  it).  Better  to  blot  out 
my  life  than  the  memories  of  Richmond  Hill ! 

ANGELICA.  You  must  keep  them  deep  hidden,  William.  .  .  . 
These  are  perilous  things,  these  memories. 

RYLAND.  They  have  been  my  stay,  my  comfort,  since  these 
ungentle  days  came  upon  me.  A  faith  like  mine,  Angelica, 
a  love  that  endures  unshaken  ...  it  must  be  something, 
even  to  you.  Tell  me  you  go  to  the  Queen  because  you 
too  remember  — 

ANGELICA.     It  is  enough  that  I  go. 

RYLAND.     No.  .  .  .    That  you  go  out  of  love  for  me. 

ANGELICA.  You  must  content  yourself,  William.  .  .  .  For 
you  I  go  to  the  Queen. 

[She  starts  toward  the  bars,  when  the  Gaoler  opens  them  quietly 
and  Mary  Ryland  comes  in.  Mistress  Ryland  pauses, 
glances  at  Angelica,  and  goes  over  to  Ryland,  who  waves  her 
away  and  sinks  back  against  the  table.  Mary  comes  down. 
Left,  hesitates  a  moment,  then  comes  down  above  Angelica, 
Left  Center,  and  falls  on  her  knees,  clasping  Angelica's 
hand. 

MARY  RYLAND.     Oh  madam,  madam ! 

ANGELICA.     What's  this  ?  .  .  .  Let  go  my  hand,  girl. 

RYLAND.     What  brings  you  back  ?  .  .  . 

MARY  RYLAND.  Mr.  Haddrill  says  .  .  .  Oh,  Madam,  you 
could  do  something,  you  could  help  us  — 

ANGELICA.     Help  us?     Who  are  you,  child? 

MARY  RYLAND.  I'm  the  unhappiest  woman  .  .  .  I've  been  a 
jealous  fool  .  .  .  But  I  know  he's  too  proud,  too  hon 
ourable.  He  would  die  rather  than  be  too  heavily  beholden 
to  you.  But  I  have  no  pride  :  I  can  beg  you  to  plead  for 
him ;  I  can  beseech  you  on  my  knees.  If  you  are  not  moved 
to  do  your  utmost  for  him,  at  least  you  must  look  with 
pity  on  me.  .  .  . 

ANGELICA.     Is  this  lady  your  wife,  Mr.  Ryland? 

RYLAND.     Yes. 

ANGELICA  (with  menace).  I  regret  that  you  omitted  to 
mention  her. 


RYLAND  395 


[Mary  Ryland  moves  away  from  her,  and  Ryland  sinks  back 

in  despair. 
SIR  JOSHUA  (heard  outside).     Well,  I  must  say,  Haddrill,  he's 

driven  a  sharp  bargain  with  you. 
HADDRILL.     Sharp    bargain !     Dem'd    close    to   robbery,  I 

call  it. 

[Enter  Sir  Joshua  and  Haddrill ,  Fielding  following  them. 
ANGELICA   (to  Sir  Joshua).     So  you've  not  found  him  so 

simple  ? 
SIR  JOSHUA.     Simple !     He  has  bound  this  poor  fellow  to 

support  his  wife  for  the  rest  of  her  days. 
HADDRILL.     I'm  a   man   of  my  word,   Ryland.     If  you're 

satisfied,  I'll  trouble  you  for  the  plate.     (Ryland  hands  over 

the  plate,  bowing)     I  shall  live  up  to  my  part  of  the  contract. 
RYLAND.     You  may  rest  assured  as  to  my  part  of  it. 
SIR  JOSHUA.     I'm   sorry,    Ryland.     I   tell   you   frankly,    I 

wished  to  think  well  of  you.     But  this  contract  ...  a 

man  capable  of  such  a  document,  sir  —  I  spare  you  my 

opinion,  in  your  wife's  presence. 

ANGELICA   (joining  Haddrill  and  Sir  Joshua).     Your   pre 
sumption,  sir ;  your  lack  of  candour  —  ... 
RYLAND.     My  best  friends  ...  it  grieves  me  exceedingly  that 

the  confidence  of  one's  best  friends  should  be  turned  aside 

by  a  man's  natural  efforts  to  save  his  neck  and  to  provide 

for  his  family. 
MARY  RYLAND  (to  Angelica).     Madam,  is  there  nothing  you 

can  do? 

ANGELICA.     Nothing  I  care  to  do. 
FIELDING.     Oh,  Mr.  Ryland,  if  you  would  only  - 
RYLAND.     Let  me  alone.     You  won't  grieve  long.     You'll 

get  your  reward. 

MARY  RYLAND.     Oh,  William,  William  ! 
RYLAND.     Tush,  child,  go  with  Fielding.     He'll  take  care  of 

you.     You've  done  enough  ...  for  me. 
ANGELICA.     For  shame,  Ryland  !     (She  gathers  Mary  Ryland 

under  her  arm)     When  you  need  to  see  her,  Mr.  Haddrill, 

come  to  me. 


396  RYLAND 


HADDRILL  (from  the  door,  where  he  and  Sir  Joshua  are  about 
to  go  out).  Your  servant,  madam. 

SIR  JOSHUA.  Come,  Mistress  Angelica.  Remember,  Ry- 
land,  I  wished  to  think  well  of  you. 

RYLAND.  I  have  not  long  to  remember.  Sir,  your  very  hum 
ble  servant. 

[Exeunt  Sir  Joshua,  Haddrill,  and  Fielding.  Angelica  stops 
at  the  door  and  turns  back,  Mary  Ryland  with  her. 

ANGELICA.     She  goes  under  my  protection,  Ryland. 

[Mistress  Ryland  leaves  Angelica  for  a  moment,  and  goes 
slowly  over  to  Ryland,  who  kisses  her  forehead  and  leads  her 
back  to  Angelica. 

RYLAND.  I  am  filled  with  gratitude,  Mistress.  Mary,  you 
will  find  it  most  pleasant  I  am  sure.  ...  A  gay  house 
hold,  Mary  —  you'll  like  that. 

ANGELICA.     Not  so  gay  as  it  has  been,  Ryland.     You  see,  I 
have  my  husband  to  consider. 
[Ryland  draws  himself  up,  swiftly. 

RYLAND.  Your  husband  ?  .  .  .  I'm  sorry  you  omitted  to 
mention  him.  My  compliments,  madam.  (Exeunt  An 
gelica  and  Mistress  Ryland.  Ryland  speaks  to  the  Gaoler, 
who  is  about  to  close  the  door)  It  won't  be  necessary  to  ad 
mit  any  more  visitors. 

GAOLER.     No,  sir.     But  there's  the  chaplain  to  see  you,  sir. 

RYLAND.     What's  that  ? 

GAOLER.     The  chaplain  of  the  prison,  Mr.  Ryland,  to  see  you. 

RYLAND  (rising  and  fumbling  with  his  cravat).  The  chaplain. 
.  .  .  Oh,  God,  yes  !  .  .  .  Yes,  yes,  yes  !  I  suppose  I  shall 
have  to  see  the  chaplain. 

CURTAIN 


THE  LAST  STRAW 

BOSWORTH   CROCKER 

MR.  BOSWORTH  CROCKER  was  born  in  Surrey,  England,  on 
March  2, 1882,  and  was  brought  to  the  United  States  in  child 
hood.  He  has  published  "The  Last  Straw'*,  1917,  "Pawns 
of  War",  1918,  and  some  poems,  short  stories,  criticism,  and 
feature  articles,  which  have  appeared  in  magazines  and  news 
papers,  over  other  signatures. 

"The  Last  Straw"  was  produced  by  The  Washington 
Square  Players.  "  The  Dog  ",  "  The  First  Time  ",  "  The  Cost 
of  a  Hat",  "  The  Hour  Before  ",  "  The  Baby  Carriage  ",  and 
"Stone  Walls"  (a  play  in  three  acts),  have  been  successfully 
given  at  amateur  performances. 


THE   LAST  STRAW 


BY  BOSWORTH  CROCKER 


"The  Last  Straw"  was  originally  produced  by  The  Wash 
ington  Square  Players  at  the  Comedy  Theatre,  New  York 
City,  February  12,  1917. 

Original  Cast 

FRIEDRICH  BAUER,  janitor  of  the  Bryn 

Mawr Arthur  E.  Hohle 

MIENE,  his  wife        Marjorie  Vonnegut 

KARL,  elder  son,  aged  ten       ....     Nick  Long 
FRITZI,  younger  son,  aged  seven      .     .     Frank  Longacre 
JIM  LANE,  a  grocer  boy Glenn  Hunter 


COPYRIGHT,  1914,  BY  BOSWORTH  CROCKER. 

All  rights  reserved. 

Reprinted  from  pamphlet  form  by  permission  of,  and  by  special  arrangement  with, 
Mr.  Bosworth  Crocker.  Published  in  pamphlet  form  by  Frank  Shay,  New  York. 

Application  for  the  right  of  performing  "The  Last  Straw"  must  be  made  to  Mr. 
Bosworth  Crocker.  Authors'  League,  New  York  City. 


THE   LAST  STRAW 

TIME.   The  present  day. 

SCENE.   The  basement  of  a  large  apartment  house  in  New 
York  City. 

SCENE.  The  kitchen  of  the  Bauer  flat  in  the  basement  of 
the  Bryn  Mawr.  A  window  at  the  side  gives  on  an  area  and 
shows  the  walk  above  and  the  houses  across  the  street.  Opposite 
the  windows  is  a  door  to  an  inner  room.  Through  the  outer 
door,  in  the  centre  of  the  back  wall,  a  dumb-waiter  and  whistles 
to  tenants  can  be  seen.  A  broken  milk  bottle  lies  in  a  puddle  of 
milk  on  the  cement  floor  in  front  of  the  dumb-waiter.  To  the 
right  of  the  outer  door,  a  telephone;  gas-range  on  which  there 
are  flat  irons  healing  and  vegetables  cooking.  To  the  left  of  the 
outer  door  is  an  old  sideboard;  over  it  hangs  a  picture  of  Schiller. 
Near  the  centre  of  the  room,  a  little  to  the  right,  stands  a  kitchen 
table  with  four  chairs  around  it.  Ironing  board  is  placed  be 
tween  the  kitchen  table  and  the  sink,  a  basket  of  dampened 
clothes  under  it.  A  large  calendar  on  the  wall.  An  alarm- 
clock  on  the  window-sill.  Time:  a  little  before  noon.  The 
telephone  rings,  Mrs.  Bauer  leaves  her  ironing  and  goes  to 
answer  it. 
MRS.  BAUER.  No,  Mr.  Bauer's  out  yet.  (She  listens  through 

the  transmitter)    Thank  you,  Mrs.  Mohler.     (Another  pause) 

I'll  tell  him  just  so  soon  he  comes  in  —  yes   ma'am. 

[Mrs.  Bauer  goes  back  to  her  ironing.     Grocer  boy  rushes  into 

basement,   whistling;   he  puts  down  his  basket,  goes  up  to 

Mrs.  Bauer's  door  and  looks  in. 
LANE.  Say  —  where's  the  boss  ? 
MBS.  BAUER.  He'll  be  home  soon,  I  —  hope  —  Jim.  What 

you  want? 

[He  stands  looking  at  her  with  growing  sympathy. 


402  THE  LAST  STRAW 

LANE.     Nothin'.     Got  a  rag  'round  here  ?  Dumb-waiter's  all 

wet.  .  .  .     Lot  of  groceries  for  Sawyers. 
MRS.  BAUER  (without  lifting  her  eyes,  mechanically  hands  him 

a  mop  which  hangs  beside  the  door).     Here. 
LANE.     What's  the  matter? 
MRS.  BAUER  (dully).     Huh ? 
LANE  (significantly).     Oh,  I  know. 
MRS.  BAUER.     What  you  know  ? 
LANE.     About    the    boss.     (Mrs.    Bauer    looks  distressed) 

Heard  your  friends  across  the  street  talkin'. 
MRS  BAUER  (bitterly) .     Friends  ! 
LANE.     Rotten  trick  to  play  on  the  boss,  all  right,  puttin' 

that  old  maid  up  to  get  him  pinched. 
MRS.  BAUER  (absently).     Was  she  an  old  maid? 
LANE.     The  cruelty  to  animals  woman  over  there   (waves 

his  hand)  —  regular  old   crank.     Nies  *  put  her  up  to  it 

all  right. 
MRS.  BAUER.     I  guess  it  was  his  old  woman.     Nies  ain't 

so  bad.     She's  the  one.     Because  my  two  boys  dress  up  a 

little  on  Sunday,  she  don't  like  it. 
LANE.     Yes,  she's  sore  because  the  boys  told  her  the  boss 

kicks  their  dog. 
MRS.  BAUER.     He  don't  do  nothin'  of  the  sort  —  jus'  drives 

it  'way  from  the  garbage  pails  —  that's  all.     We  coulda 

had  that  dog  took  up  long  ago  —  they  ain't  got  no  license. 

But  Fritz  —  he's  so  easy  —  he  jus'  takes  it  out  chasin' 

the  dog  and  hollerin'. 

LANE.     That  ain't  no  way.     He  ought  to  make  the  dog  hol 
ler  —  good  and  hard  —  once ;    then  it'd  keep  out  of  here. 
MRS.  BAUER.     Don't  you  go  to  talkin'  like  that  'round  my 

man.     Look  at  all  this  trouble  we're  in  on  account  of  a 

stray  cat. 
LANE.     I  better  get  busy.     They'll  be  callin'  up  the  store 

in  a  minute.     That  woman's  the  limit.  .  .  .     Send  up  the 

groceries  in  that  slop,  she'd  send  them  down  again.     High- 
toned  people  like  her  ought  to  keep  maids. 
*  Pronounced  niece. 


THE   LAST  STRAW  403 

[He  mops  out  the  lower  shelf  of  the  dumb-waiter,  then  looks  at 
the  broken  bottle  and  the  puddle  of  milk  inquiringly. 

MRS.  BAUER  (taking  the  mop  away  from  him).  I'll  clean  that 
up.  I  forgot  —  in  all  this  trouble. 

LANE.     Whose  milk  ? 

MRS.  BAUER.  The  Mohlers'.  —  That's  how  it  all  happened. 
Somebody  upset  their  milk  on  the  dumb-waiter  and  the 
cat  was  on  the  shelf  lickin'  it  up ;  my  man,  not  noticin*. 
starts  the  waiter  up  and  the  cat  tries  to  jump  out;  the 
bottle  rolls  off  and  breaks.  The  cat  was  hurt  awful  — 
caught  in  the  shaft.  I  don't  see  how  it  coulda  run  after 
that,  but  it  did  —  right  into  the  street,  right  into  that 
woman  — Fritz  after  it.  Then  it  fell  over.  "You  did 
that?"  she  says  to  Fritz.  "Yes",  he  says,  "I  did  that." 
He  didn't  say  no  more,  jus'  went  off  and  then  after  a  while 
they  came  for  him  and  - 
[She  begins  to  cry  softly. 

LANE.  Brace  up;  they  ain't  goin'  to  do  anything  to  him. 
.  .  .  (Comes  into  kitchen.  Hesitatingly)  Say !  .  .  .  He 
didn't  kick  the  cat  —  did  he  ? 

MRS.  BAUER.     Who  said  so? 

LANE.  Mrs.  Nies  —  says  she  saw  him  from  her  win 
dow. 

MRS.  BAUER  (as  though  to  herself).  I  dunno.  (Excitedly) 
Of  course  he  didn't  kick  that  cat.  (Again  as  though  to 
herself)  Fritz  is  so  quick-tempered  he  mighta  kicked  it 
'fore  he  knew  what  he  was  about.  No  one'd  ever  know 
how  good  Fritz  is  unless  they  lived  with  him.  He  never 
hurt  no  one  and  nothing  except  himself. 

LANE.     Oh,  I'm  on  to  the  boss.     I  never  mind  his  hollerin*. 

MRS.  BAUER.  If  you  get  a  chance,  bring  me  some  butter 
for  dinner  —  a  pound. 

LANE.  All  right.  I'll  run  over  with  it  in  ten  or  fifteen 
minutes,  soon  as  I  get  rid  of  these  orders  out  here  in  the 
wagon. 

MRS.  BAUER.     That'll  do. 

[She  moves  about  apathetically,  lays  the  cloth  on  the  kitchen 


404  THE  LAST  STRAW 

table  and  begins  to  set  it.  Lane  goes  to  the  dumb-waiter, 
whistles  up  the  tube,  puts  the  basket  of  groceries  on  the  shelf  of 
the  dumb-waiter,  pulls  rope  and  sends  waiter  up.  Mrs.  Bauer 
continues  to  set  the  table.  Boys  from  the  street  suddenly 
swoop  into  the  basement  and  yell. 

CHORUS  OF  BOYS'  VOICES.     Who  killed  the  cat !     Who  killed 
the  cat ! 

LANE  (letting  the  rope  go  and  making  a  dive  for  the  boys).     I'll 
show  you,  you  — 

[  They  rush  out,  Mrs.  Bauer  stands  despairingly  in  the  door 
way  shaking  her  clasped  hands. 

MRS.  BAUER.     Those  are  Nies's  boys. 

LANE.     Regular  toughs  !     Call  the  cop  and  have  'em  pinched 
if  they  don't  stop  it. 

MRS.  BAUER.     If  my  man  hears  them  —  you  know  —  there'll 
be  more  trouble. 

LANE.     The  boss  ought  to  make  it  hot  for  them. 

MRS.  BAUER.     Such  trouble  ! 

LANE  (starts  to  go)      Well,  —  luck  to  the  boss. 

MRS.  BAUER.     There  ain't  no  such  thing  as  luck  for  us. 

LANE.     Aw,  come  on.  .  .  . 

MRS.  BAUER.  Everything's  against  us.  First  Fritz's  mother 
dies.  We  named  the  baby  after  her  —  Trude.  .  .  .  Then 
we  lost  Trude.  That  finished  Fritz  After  that  he  be 
gan  this  holler  n'  business  And  now  this  here  trouble 
—  just  when  things  was  goin'  half  ways  decent  for  the 
first  time. 
[She  pushes  past  him  and  goes  to  her  ironing. 

LANE  (shakes  his  head  sympathetically  and  takes  up  his  basket) . 
A  pound  you  said  ? 

MRS.   BAUER.       Yes. 

LANE.     All  right.     (He  starts  off  and  then  rushes  back)     Here's 

the  boss  comin',  Mrs.  Bauer. 

[Rushes  off  again. 

LANE'S  VOICE  (cheerfully).     Hello,  there ! 
BAUER'S  VOICE  (dull  and  strained) .     Hello  ! 

[Bauer  comes  in.     His  naturally  bright  blue  eyes  are  tired 


THE  LAST  STRAW  405 

and  lustreless ;  his  strong  frame  seems  to  have  lost  all  vigor 

and  alertness;  there  is  a  look  of  utter  despondency  on  his 

face. 
MRS.   BAUER   (closing   the  door  after  him).     They   let  you 

off? 
BAUER  (with  a  hard  little  laugh).     Yes,  they  let  me  off  —  they 

let  me  off  w';th  a  fine  all  right. 
MRS.  BAUER  (aghast).     They  think  you  did  it  then. 
BAUER  (harshly).     The  judge  fined  me,  I  tell  you. 
MRS.  BAUER  (unable  to  express  her  poignant  sympathy).     Fined 

you!.  .  .     O  Fritz! 

[She  lays  her  hand  on  his  shoulder. 
BAUER  (roughly,  to  keep  himself  from  going  to  pieces).     That 

slop  out  there  ain't  cleaned  up  yet. 
MRS.  BAUER.     I've  been  so  worried. 

BAUER  (with  sudden  desperation).     I  can't  stand  it,  I  tell  you. 
MRS.  BAUER.     Well,  it's  all  over  now,  Fritz. 
BAUER.     Yes,  it's  all  over  .  .  .  it's  all  up  with  me. 

MRS.  BAUER        Fritz  ! 

BAUER.     That's  one  sure  thing. 

MRS.  BAUER.     You  oughtn't  to  give  up  like  this. 

BAUER  (pounding  on  the  table).     I  tell  you  I  can't  hold  up  my 

head  again. 

MRS.  BAUER.     Why,  Fritz  ? 
BAUER.     They've  made  me  out  guilty.     The  judge  fined  mef 

Fined  me,  Miene !     How  is  that  ?     Can  a  man  stand  for 

that  ?     The  woman  said  I  told  her  myself  —  right  out  — 

that  I  did  it. 
MRS.  BAUER.     The  woman  that  had  you  —  (He  winces  as  she 

hesitates)  took? 
BAUER.     Damned  - 

MRS.  BAUER  (putting  her  hand  over  his  mouth).     Hush,  Fritz. 
BAUER.     Why  will  I  hush,  Miene  ?     She  said  I  was  proud  of 

the  job.     (Passionately  raising  his  voice)     The  damned 

interferin*  — 
MRS.  BAUER.     Don't  holler,  Fritz.     It's  your  hollerin'  that's 

made  all  this  trouble. 


406  THE  LAST  STRAW 

BAUER  (penetrated  by  her  words  more  and  more).     My  hol- 

lerin' !  .  .  .  . 

[The  telephone  rings;  she  answers  it. 
MRS.  BAUER.     Yes,  Mrs.  Mohler,  he's  come  in  now.  —  Yes. 

-  Won't   after   dinner   do  ?  —  All   right.  —  Thank   you, 
Mrs.  Mohler.     (She  hangs  up  the  receiver)     Mrs.  Mohler 
wants  you  to  fix  her  sink  right  after  dinner. 

BAUER.     I'm  not  goin'  to  do  any  more  fixin'  around  here. 
MRS.  BAUER.     You  hold  on  to  yourself,  Fritz ;  that's  no  way 

to  talk ;  Mrs.  Mohler's  a  nice  woman. 
BAUER.     I  don't  want  to  see  no  more  nice  women.     (After 

a  pause)     Hollerin' !  —  that's  what's  the  matter  with  me 

-  hollerin',  eh?     Well,  I've  took  it  all  out  in  hollerin'. 
MRS.  BAUER.     They  hear  you  and  they  think  you've  got  no 

feelings. 

BAUER  (in  utter  amazement  at  the  irony  of  the  situation) .  And 
I  was  goin'  after  the  damned  cat  to  take  care  of  it. 

MRS.  BAUER.  Why  didn't  you  tell  the  judge  all  about 
it? 

BAUER.  They  got  me  rattled  among  them.  The  lady  was 
so  soft  and  pleasant  —  "He  must  be  made  to  understand, 
your  Honor,"  she  said  to  the  judge,  "that  dumb  animals 
has  feelin's,  too,  just  as  well  as  human  beings"  —  Me, 
Meine, —  made  to  understand  that !  I  couldn't  say  nothin*. 
My  voice  just  stuck  in  my  throat. 

MRS.  BAUER.  What's  the  matter  with  you !  You  oughta 
spoke  up  and  told  the  judge  just  how  it  all  happened. 

BAUER.  I  said  to  myself :  I'll  go  home  and  put  a  bullet 
through  my  head  —  that's  the  best  thing  for  me  now. 

MRS.  BAUER  (with  impatient  unbelief).  Ach,  Fritz,  Fritz! 
[Clatter  of  feet. 

CHORUS  OF  VOICES  (at  the  outer  door).  Who  killed  the  cat! 
Who  killed  the  cat ! 

[Bauer  jumps  up,  pale  and  shaken  with  strange  rage;  she 
pushes  him  gently  back  into  his  chair,  opens  the  door,  steps 
out  for  a  moment,  then  comes  in  and  leaves  the  door  open  be 
hind  her. 


THE  LAST  STRAW  407 

BAUER.  You  see?  .  .  .  Even  the  kids  ...  I'm  disgraced 
all  over  the  place. 

MRS.  BAUER.     So  long  as  you  didn't  hurt  the  cat  — 

BAUER.     What's  the  difference?     Everybody  believes  it. 

MRS.  BAUER.     No,  they  don't,  Fritz. 

BAUER.  You  can't  fool  me,  Miene.  I  see  it  in  their  eyes. 
They  looked  away  from  me  when  I  was  comin'  'round  the 
corner.  Some  of  them  kinder  smiled  like  —  (Passes  his 
hand  over  his  head)  Even  the  cop  says  to  me  on  the  way 
over,  yesterday:  "Don't  you  put  your  foot  in  it  any 
more'n  you  have  to."  You  see?  He  thought  I  did  it 
all  right.  Everybody  believes  it. 

MRS.  BAUER  (putting  towels  away).  Well,  then  let  them  be 
lieve  it.  ...  The  agent  don't  believe  it. 

BAUER.     I  dunno.     He'da  paid  my  fine  anyhow. 

MRS.  BAUER.     He  gave  you  a  good  name. 

BAUER  (with  indignant  derision).  He  gave  me  a  good  name  ! 
.  .  .  Haven't  I  always  kept  this  place  all  right  since  we 
been  here?  Afterwards  he  said  to  me:  "I'm  surprised 
at  this  business,  Bauer,  very  much  surprised."  That  shows 
what  he  thinks.  I  told  him  it  ain't  true,  I  didn't  mean  to 
hurt  it.  I  saw  by  his  eyes  he  didn't  believe  me. 

MRS.  BAUER.     Well,  don't  you  worry  any  more  now. 

BAUER  (to  himself).     Hollerin' ! 

MRS.  BAUER  (shuts  the  door).  Well  now  holler  a  little  if  it 
does  you  good. 

BAUER.     Nothin's  goin'  to  do  me  good. 

MRS.  BAUER.     You  just  put  it  out   of  your  mind.       (The 
telephone  rings.     She  answers  it)     Yes,  but  he  can't  come 
now,  Mrs.  McAllister.     He'll  be  up  this  afternoon. 
[She  hangs  up  the  receiver. 

BAUER.     And  I  ain't  goin'  this  afternoon  —  nowhere. 

MRS.  BAUER.  It's  Mrs.  McAllister.  Somethin's  wrong 
with  her  refrigerator  —  the  water  won't  run  off,  she  says. 

BAUER.     They  can  clean  out  their  own  drain  pipes. 

MRS.  BAUER.  You  go  to  work  and  get  your  mind  off  this 
here  business. 


408  THE  LAST  STRAW 

BAUEB  (staring  staight  ahead  of  him).     I  ain't  goin'  'round 

among  the  people  in  this  house  ...  to  have  them  lookin' 

at  me  .  .  .  disgraced  like  this. 
MRS.  BAUER.     You  want  to  hold  up  your  head  and  act  as  if 

nothin's  happened. 
BAUER.     Nobody  spoke  to  me  at  the  dumb-waiter  when  I 

took   off   the   garbage   and   paper   this   morning.     Mrs. 

Mohler  always  says  something  pleasant. 
MRS.  BAUER.     You  just  think  that  because  you're  all  upset. 

(The   telephone   rings;  she   goes   to   it   and   listens)     Yes, 

ma'am,  I'll  see.     Fritz,  have  you  any  fine  wire?     Mrs. 

McAllister  thinks  she  might  try  and  fix  the  drain  with 

it  —  till  you  come  up. 
BAUER.     I  got  no  wire. 
MRS.  BAUER.     Mr.  Bauer'll  fix  it  —  right  after  dinner,  Mrs. 

McAllister.     (Impatiently)     He  can't  find  the  wire  this 

minute  —  soon's  he  eats  his  dinner. 
BAUER  (doggedly).     You'll  see.  .  .  . 
MRS.  BAUER  (soothingly) .     Come  now,  Fritz,  give  me  your 

hat. 

[She  takes  his  hat  from  him. 
VOICES  IN  THE  STREET  (receding  from  the  front  area).     Who 

killed  the  cat !     Who  killed  the  cat !  j 

[Bauer  rushes  toward  the  window  in  a  fury  of  excitement. 
BAUER  (shouting  at  the  top  of  his  voice)     Verdammte  loafers ! 

Schweine ! 

MRS.  BAUER  (goes  up  to  him) .     Fritz  !     Fritz  ! 
BAUER  (collapses  and  drops  into  chair).     You  hear  'em. 
MRS.  BAUER.     Don't  pay  no  attention,  then  they'll  get  tired. 
BAUER.     Miene,  we  must  go  away.     I  can't  stand  it  here 

no  longer. 
MRS.   BAUER.     But  there's  not  such  another  good  place, 

Fritz  —  And  the  movin'  .  .  .  jl 
BAUER.     I  say  I  can't  stand  it. 
MRS.  BAUER  (desperately).     It  .  .  .it  would  be  just  the  same 

any  other  place. 
BAUER.     Just  the  same  ? 


THE  LAST  STRAW  409 

MRS.  BAUER.     Yes,  something'd  go  wrong  anyhow. 

BAUER.     You  think  I'm  a  regular  Jonah. 

[He  shakes  his  head  repeatedly  in  the  affirmative  as  though 
wholly  embracing  her  point  of  view. 

MRS.  BAUER.  Folks  don't  get  to  know  you.  They  hear 
you  hollerin'  'round  and  they  think  you  beat  the  children 
and  kick  the  dogs  and  cats. 

BAUER.     Do  I  ever  lick  the  children  when  they  don't  need  it  ? 

MRS.  BAUER.     Not  Fritzi. 

BAUER.  You  want  to  spoil  Karl.  I  just  touch  him  with 
the  strap  once,  a  little  —  like  this  (illustrates  with  a  gesture) 
to  scare  him  and  he  howls  like  hell. 

MRS.  BAUER.  Yes,  and  then  he  don't  mind  you  no  more  be 
cause  he  knows  you  don't  mean  it. 

BAUER  (to  himself).  That's  the  way  it  goes  ...  a  man's 
own  wife  and  children  .  .  . 

MRS.  BAUER  (attending  to  the  dinner.  Irritably).  Fritz,  if 
you  would  clean  that  up  out  there  —  and  Mrs.  Carroll 
wants  her  waste-basket.  You  musta  forgot  to  send  it  up 
again. 

BAUER.     All  right. 

[He  goes  out  and  leaves  the  door  open.  She  stands  her  flat- 
iron  on  the  ledge  of  the  range  to  cool  and  puts  her  ironing- 
board  away,  watching  him  at  the  dumb-waiter  while  he  picks 
up  the  glass  and  cleans  up  the  milk  on  the  cement  floor.  He 
disappears  for  a  moment,  then  he  comes  in  again,  goes  to  a 
drawer  and  takes  out  rags  and  a  bottle  of  polish. 

MRS.  BAUER  (pushing  the  clothes-basket  out  of  the  way).  This 
ain't  cleanin'  day,  Fritz. 

BAUER  (dully,  putting  the  polish  back  into  the  drawer).  That's 
so. 

MRS.  BAUER  (comforting  him).  You've  got  to  eat  a  good 
dinner  and  then  go  upstairs  and  fix  that  sink  for  Mrs. 
Mohler  and  the  drain  for  Mrs.  McAllister. 

BAUER  (in  a  tense  voice).  I  tell  you  I  can't  stand  it.  ... 
I  tell  you,  Miene.  .  .  . 

MRS.  BAUER.     What  now,  Fritz  ? 


410  THE   LAST  STRAW 

BAUER.  People  laugh  in  my  face.  (Nods  in  the  direction  of 
the  street)  Frazer's  boy  standin'  on  the  stoop  calls  his 
dog  away  when  it  runs  up  to  me  like  it  always  does. 

MRS.  BAUER.     Dogs  know  better'n  men  who's  good  to  them. 

BAUER.     He  acted  like  he  thought  I'd  kick  it. 

MRS.  BAUER.  You've  got  all  kinds  of  foolishness  in  your 
head  now  ....  You  sent  up  Carroll's  basket  ? 

BAUER.     No. 

MRS.  BAUER.       Well 

[She  checks  herself. 
BAUER.     All  right. 

[He  gets  up. 
MRS.  BAUER.     It's  settin'  right  beside  the  other  dumb-waiter. 

(He  goes  out)     O  Gott !  —  O  Gott !  —  O  Gott ! 

[Enter  Karl  and  Fritzi.     Fritzi  is  crying. 
MRS.  BAUER  (running  to  them).     What's  the  matter? 

[She  hushes  them  and  carefully  closes  the  door. 
KARL.     The  boys  make  fun  of  us ;   they  mock  us. 
FRITZI.     They  mock  us  —  "Miau!  Miau!"  they  cry,  and 

then  they  go  like  this  — 

[Fritzi  imitates  kicking  and  breaks  out  crying  afresh. 
MRS.  BAUER.     Hush,  Fritzi,  you  mustn't  let  your  father  hear. 
FRITZI.     He'd  make  them  shut  up. 
KARL.     I  don't  want  to  go  to  school  this  afternoon. 

[He  doubles  his  fists. 
MRS.  BAUER  (turning  on  him  fiercely).     Why  not?     (In  an 

undertone)     You  talk  that  way  before  your  little  brother. 

—  Have  you  no  sense  ? 
FRITZI  (beginning  to  whimper).     I  d-d-d-on't  want  to  go  to 

school  this  afternoon. 
MRS.  BAUER.     You  just  go  'long  to  school  and  mind  your 

own  business. 

KARL  AND  FRITZI  (together).     But  the  boys.  .  .  . 
MRS.  BAUER.    They  ain't  a  goin'  to  keep  it  up  forever.    Don't 

you  answer  them.     Just  go  'long  together  and  pay  no 

attention. 
KARL.     Then  they  get  fresher  and  fresher. 


THE  LAST  STRAW  411 

FRITZI  (echoing  Karl) .     Yes,  then  they  get  fresher  and  fresher. 

[Mrs.  Bauer  begins  to  take  up  the  dinner.     The  sound  oj 

footfalls  just  outside  the  door  is  heard. 
MRS.  BAUER.     Go  on  now,  hang  up  your  caps  and  get  ready 

for  your  dinners. 
FRITZI.     I'm  going  to  tell  my  papa. 

[Goes  to  inner  door. 
MRS.  BAUER.     For  God's  sake,  Fritzi,  shut  up.     You  mustn't 

tell  no  one.     Papa'd  be  disgraced  all  over. 
KARL  (coming  up  to  her)      Disgraced  ? 

MRS.  BAUER.       Hush  ! 

KARL.     Why  disgraced  ? 

MRS.  BAUER.  Because  there's  liars,  low-down  snoopin' 
liars  in  the  world. 

KARL.     Who's  lied,  Mamma  ? 

MRS.  BAUER.     The  janitress  across  the  street. 

KARL.     Mrs.  Nies? 

FRITZI  (calling  out).     Henny  Nies  is  a  tough. 

MRS.  BAUER  (looking  toward  the  outer  door  anxiously  and 
shaking  her  head  threateningly  at  Fritzi) .  I  give  you  some- 
thin',  if  you  don't  stop  hollerin'  out  like  that. 

KARL.     Who'd  she  lie  to  ? 

MRS.  BAUER.  Never  mind.  Go  'long  now.  It's  time  you 
begin  to  eat. 

KARL.     What'd  she  lie  about  ? 

MRS.  BAUER  (warningly) .  S-s-sh !  Papa'll  be  comin'  in  now 
in  a  minute. 

KARL.  It  was  Henny  Nies  set  the  gang  on  to  us.  I  coulda 
licked  them  all  if  I  hadn't  had  to  take  care  of  Fritzi. 

MRS.  BAUER.  You'll  get  a  lickin'  all  right  if  you  don't  keep 
away  from  Henny  Nies. 

KARL.  Well  —  if  they  call  me  names  —  and  say  my  father's 
been  to  the  station-house  for  killing  a  cat  .  .  .  ? 

FRITZI.     Miau  !  Miau  !  Miau  ! 

MRS.  BAUER.     Hold  your  mouth. 

FRITZI  (swaggering).  My  father  never  was  in  jail  —  was  he, 
Mamma  ? 


412  THE  LAST  STRAW 

KARL.     Course  not. 

MRS.  BAUER  (to  Fritzi) .     Go,  wash  your  hands,  Fritzi. 

[She  steers  him  to  the  door  of  the  inner  room,  he  exits. 
MRS.  BAUER  (distressed).     Karl  .  .  . 
KARL  (turning  to  his  mother).     Was  he,  Mamma? 
MRS.  BAUER.     Papa  don't  act  like  he  used  to.     Sometimes 

I  wonder  what's  come  over  him.     Of  course  it's  enough  to 

ruin  any  man's  temper,  all  the  trouble  we've  had. 
CHORUS  OF  VOICES   (from  the  area  by  the  window).     Who 

killed  the  cat !     Who  killed  the  cat ! 

[Sound  of  feet  clattering  up  the  area  steps.     Fritzi  rushes  in, 

flourishing  a  revolver. 
FRITZI.     I  shoot  them,  Mamma. 
MRSI    BAUER    (grabbing  the   revolver).     Mein    Gott!     Fritzi! 

Papa's   pistol!     (She   examines   it    carefully)     You   ever 

touch  that  again  and  I'll  .... 

[She  menaces  him. 

FRITZI  (sulkily).     I'll  save  up  my  money  and  buy  me  one. 
MRS.  BAUER  (smiling  a  little  to  herself).     I  see  you  buy  in' 

one. 

[Carries  revolver  into  inner  room. 
FRITZI  (in  a  loud  voice  and  as  though  shooting  at  Karl).    Bang ! 

Bang !     Bang ! 

[Karl  strikes  at  Fritzi;  Fritzi  dodges. 
KARL  (to  his  mother  as  she  re-enters).     Trouble  with  Fritzi  is 

he  don't  mind  me  any  more. 
MRS.   BAUER.     You  wash  your  dirty  hands  and  face  this 

minute  —  d'you  hear  me,  Fritzi ! 
FRITZI  (looking  at  his  hands).     That's  ink  stains.     I  got  the 

highest    mark    in    spelling    today.     Capital    H-e-n-n-y, 

capital  N-i-e-s  —  Henny  Nies,  a  bum. 

[Mrs.  Bauer  makes  a  rush  at  him  and  he  runs  back  into  the 

inner  room. 
KARL  (sitting  down  beside  the  table).     Do  we  have  to  go  to 

school  this  afternoon  ? 

MRS.  BAUER.     You  have  to  do  what  you  always  do. 
KARL.     Can't  we  stay  home.  .  .  . 


THE   LAST  STRAW  413 

MRS.  BAUER  (fiercely) .     Why  ?     Why  ? 

KARL  (sheepishly)     I  ain't  feelin'  well. 

MRS.  BAUER.     Karlchen  !  .  .  .  sham  dich  ! 

KARL.     Till  the  boys  forget.  .  .  . 

MRS.  BAUER.  Papa'd  know  somethin'  was  wrong  right 
away.  That'd  be  the  end.  You  mustn't  act  as  if  any 
thing  was  different  from  always. 

KARL  (indignantly).     Sayin'  my  father's  been  to  jail! 

MRS.  BAUER.     Karl.  .  .  . 

KARL.     Papa'd  make  them  stop. 

MRS.  BAUER  (panic-stricken) .  Karl,  don't  you  tell  Papa 
nothing. 

KARL.     Not  tell  Papa  ? 

MRS.   BAUER.       No. 

KARL.     Why  not  tell  Papa? 

MRS.  BAUER.     Because  — 

KARL.     Yes,  Mamma? 

MRS.  BAUER.     Because  he  was  arrested  yesterday. 

KARL  (shocked).     What  for,  Mamma?     Why  was  he  — 

MRS.  BAUER.     For  nothing.  ...     It  was  all  a  lie. 

KARL.     Well  —  what  was  it,  Mamma  ? 

MRS.  BAUER.     The  cat  got  hurt  in  the  dumb-waiter  —  Papa 

didn't  mean  to  —  then  they  saw  Papa  chasin'  it  —  then  it 

died. 

KARL.     Why  did  Papa  chase  it  ? 
MRS.  BAUER.     To  see  how  it  hurt  itself. 
KARL.     Whose  cat  ? 
MRS.  BAUER.     The  stray  cat. 
KARL.     The  little  black  cat  ?     Is  Blacky  dead  ? 
MRS.  BAUER.     Yes,  he  died  on  the  sidewalk. 
KARL.     Where  was  we? 
MRS.  BAUER.     You  was  at  school. 
KARL.     Papa  didn't  want  us  to  keep  Blacky. 
MBS.  BAUER.     So  many  cats  and  dogs  around.   .  .  . 
FRITZI  (wailing  at  the  door) .     Blacky  was  my  cat. 
MRS.  BAUER.     S-s-h  !     What  do  you  know  about  Blacky  ? 
FRITZI.     I  was  listening.     Why  did  Papa  kill  Blacky  ? 


414  THE  LAST  STRAW 

MRS.  BAUER.       Hush  ! 

FRITZI.     Why  was  Papa  took  to  jail  ? 

MRS.   BAUER.     Fritzi !     If  Papa  was  to  hear.  .  .  . 

[Mrs.  Bauer  goes  out. 

FRITZI  (sidling  up  to  Karl) .     Miau  !     Miau  ! 
KARL.     You  shut  up  that.     Didn't  Mamma  tell  you. 
FRITZI.     When  I'm  a  man  I'm  going  to  get  arrested.     I'll 

shoot  Henny  Nies. 
KARL  (contemptuously).     Yes,  you'll  do  a  lot  of  shooting. 

[Fritzi  punches  Karl  in  back. 
KARL  (striking  at  Fritzi).     You're  as  big  a  tough  as  Henny 

Nies. 
FRITZI  (proud  of  this  alleged  likeness).     I'm  going  to  be  a 

man  just  like  my  father ;  I'll  holler  and  make  them  stand 

around. 
KARL  (with  conviction).     What  you  need  is  a  good  licking. 

[Telephone  rings;  Karl  goes  to  it. 
KARL.     No,  Ma'am,  we're  just  going  to  eat  now. 
FRITZI  (sits  down  beside  the  table).     Blacky  was  a  nice  cat; 

she  purred  just  like  a  steam  engine. 
KARL.     Mamma  told  you  not  to  bring  her  in. 
FRITZI.     Papa  said  I  could. 

[There  is  the  sound  of  footfalls.     Bauer  and  his  wife  come 

in  and  close  the  door  behind  them. 
MRS.  BAUER  (putting  the  dinner  on  the  table).     Come, children. 

(To  Bauer)     Sit  down,  Fritz. 

[She  serves  the  dinner.     Karl  pulls  Fritzi  out  of  his  father's 

chair  and  pushes  him  into  his  own ;  then  he  takes  his  place 

next  to  his  mother. 

MRS.  BAUER  (to  Bauert  who  sits  looking  at  his  food) .     Eat  some- 
thin',  Friedrich. 

[She  sits  down. 
BAUER.     I  can't  eat  nothin*.     I'm  full  up  to  here. 

[He  touches  his  throat. 
MRS.  BAUER.     If  you  haven't  done  nothin'  wrong  why  do  you 

let  it  worry  you  so  ? 

[Children  are  absorbed  in  eating. 


THE   LAST  STRAW  415 

FRITZI  (suddenly).     Gee,  didn't  Blacky  like  liver ! 
[Mrs.  Bauer  and  Karl  look  at  him  warningly. 

MRS.  BAUER  (fiercely).     You  eat  your  dinner. 

BAUER  (affectionately,  laying  his  hand  on  Fritzi' s  arm). 
Fritzi. 

FRITZI  (points  toward  the  inner  room).  I'm  going  to  have  a 
gun,  too,  when  I'm  a  man. 

[Bauer  follows  Fritzi' s  gesture  and  falls  to  musing.  There 
is  a  look  of  brooding  misery  on  his  face.  Karl  nudges 
Fritzi  warningly  and  watches  his  father  furtively.  Bauer 
sits  motionless,  staring  straight  ahead  of  him. 

MRS.  BAUER  (to  Bauer).     Now  drink  your  coffee. 

BAUER.  Don't  you  see,  Miene,  don't  you  see  ?  .  .  .  Noth 
ing  makes  it  right  now ;  no  one  believes  me  —  no  one 
believes  me  —  no  one. 

MRS.  BAUER.     What  do  you  care,  if  you  didn't  do  it. 

BAUER.     I  care  like  hell. 

MRS.  BAUER  (with  a  searching  look  at  her  husband).  Fritzi, 
when  you  go  on  like  this,  people  won't  believe  you  didn't 
do  it.  You  ought  to  act  like  you  don't  care  .  .  .  (She 
fixes  him  with  a  beseeching  glance)  if  you  didn't  do  it. 
[Bauer  looks  at  his  wife  as  though  a  hidden  meaning  to  her 
words  had  suddenly  bitten  into  his  mind. 

BAUER  (as  though  to  himself).  A  man  can't  stand  that. 
I've  gone  hungry  .  .  .  I've  been  in  the  hospital  .  .  .  I've 
worked  when  I  couldn't  stand  up  hardly.  .  .  . 

MRS.  BAUER  (coaxingly).     Drink  your  coffee,  drink  it  now, 
Fritz,  while  it's  hot. 
[He  tries  to  swallow  a  little  coffee  and  then  puts  down  the  cup. 

BAUER.     I've  never  asked  favors  of  no  man. 

MRS.  BAUER.     Well,  an'  if  you  did  .  .  . 

BAUER.     I've  always  kept  my  good  name.  .  .  . 

MRS.  BAUER.  If  a  man  hasn't  done  nothin'  wrong  it  don't 
matter.  Just  go  ahead  like  always  —  if  - 

BAUER  (muttering) .     If  —  if  - 

MRS.  BAUER  (to  the  boys).  Get  your  caps  now,  it's  time  to 
go  to  school. 


416  THE  LAST  STRAW 

[Karl  gets  up,  passes  behind  his  father  and  beckons  to  Fritzi  to 
follow  him. 

FRITZI  (keeping  his  seat).     Do  we  have  to  go  to  school? 

BAUER  (suddenly  alert).     Why,  what's  the  matter? 

FRITZI.     The  boys  — 

MRS.  BAUER  (breaking  in) .     Fritzi ! 

(The  boys  go  into  the  inner  room.  Bauer  collapses  again. 
Mrs.  Bauer,  looking  at  him  strangely)  Fritzi  —  if  you 
didn't— 

BAUER.  I  can't  prove  nothing  —  and  no  one  believes  me. 
(A  pause.  She  is  silent  under  his  gaze)  No  one !  (He 
waits  for  her  to  speak.  She  sits  with  averted  face.  He  sinks 
into  a  dull  misery.  The  expression  in  his  eyes  changes  from 
beseeching  to  despair  as  her  silence  continues,  and  he  cries 
out  hoarsely)  No  one  !  Even  if  you  kill  a  cat  —  what's 
a  cat  against  a  man's  life  ! 

MRS.   BAUER  (tensely,  her  eyes  fastened  on  his).     But  you 
didn't  kill  it  ? 
[A  pause. 

MRS.  BAUER   (in  a  low  appealing  voice).     Did  you,  Fritz? 
DID  you  ?     (Bauer  gets  up  slowly.     He  stands  very  still  and 
stares  at  his  wife.    Karl's  voice.    "Mamma,  Fritzi's  fooling 
with  Papa's  gun.") 
[Both  children  rush  into  the  room. 

KARL.     You  oughta  lock  it  up. 

MRS.  BAUER  (to  Fritzi).  Bad  boy!     (To  Karl)     Fritzi  wants 
to  kill  himself  —  that's  what.     Go  on  to  school. 
[Boys  run  past  area. 

VOICES.     Who  killed  the  cat !     Who  killed  the  cat ! 

[At  the  sound  of  the  voices  the  boys  start  back.  Instinctively 
Mrs.  Bauer  lays  a  protecting  hand  on  each.  She  looks 
around  at  her  husband  with  a  sudden  anxiety  which  she  tries 
to  conceal  from  the  children,  who  whisper  together.  Bauer 
rises  heavily  to  his  feet  and  walks  staggeringly  toward  the 
inner  room. 

MRS.  BAUER  (in  a  worried  tone  as  she  pushes  the  children  out). 
Go  on  to  school. 


THE  LAST  STRAW  417 

[At  the  threshold  of  the  inner  room,  Bauer  stops,  half  turns 
back  with  distorted  features,  and  then  hurries  in.  The  door 
slams  behind  him.  Mrs.  Bauer  closes  the  outer  door,  turns, 
takes  a  step  as  though  to  follow  Bauer,  hesitates,  then  crosses 
to  the  kitchen  table  and  starts  to  clear  up  the  dishes.  The 
report  of  a  revolver  sounds  from  the  inner  room.  Terror- 
stricken,  Mrs.  Bauer  rushes  in. 

MRS.  BAUER'S  VOICE.  Fritz  !  Fritz  !  Speak  to  me  !  Look 
at  me,  Fritz  !  You  didn't  do  it,  Fritz  !  I  know  you  didn't 
doit! 

[Sound  of  low  sobbing  .  .  .  After  a  few  seconds  the  telephone 
bell .  . .  It  rings  continuously  while  the  CURTAIN  slowly  falls. 


HATTIE 

ELVA  DE  PUE  MATTHEWS 

MRS.  ELVA  DE  PUE  MATTHEWS  (Mrs.  Warren  Shepard 
Matthews)  was  born  in  California,  April  23,  1889.  She 
has  studied  at  Dana  Hall,  Massachusetts,  The  University  of 
California,  Columbia  University,  and  in  Europe.  In  June, 
1918,  she  married  Warren  Shepard  Matthews.  She  has 
written  several  articles  for  magazines,  but  "Hattie"  is  her 
only  play. 


HATTIE 

A  DRAMA 
BY  ELVA  DE  PUE 


"Hattie"  was  originally  produced  by  The  Morningside 
Players,  April  22,  1917,  at  the  Comedy  Theatre,  New  York. 

Original  Cast 

HATTIE       Sophie  Wilds 

MINA Clarice  McCauley 

MRS.  SCROGGINS Mildred  Hamburger 

TIM Robert  A.  Pines 

HEINRICH  Roger  Wheeler 


COPYRIGHT,  1917,  BY  THE  MORNINGSIDE  PLAYERS. 
All  rights  reserved. 

Printed  originally  in  "Morningside  Plays." 

Application  for  the  right  of  performing  "Hattie"  must  be  made  to  Mrs.  Warren 
Shepard  Matthews,  2226  Sacramento  Street,  San  Francisco,  California. 


HATTIE 

TIME  :   The  Present. 

SCENE  :  Room  in  a  New  York  tenement.  At  the  back  of 
the  stage  a  cot  in  left  corner,  and  next  it  a  mattress  made  up  as 
a  bed.  On  the  right  a  cupboard  and  a  table.  On  the  left  an  old 
bureau.  A  door  at  the  back  leads  into  the  next  room;  a  door  at 
the  right  into  the  hall.  Across  the  hall  from  it  are  supposed  to 
be  the  outside  door  to  the  street  and  a  window.  A  woman  comes 
in  hurriedly  from  the  hall.  She  is  a  small,  bright  German, 
whose  hair  at  first  appears  to  be  gray,  but  turns  out  to  be  flaxen. 
When  excited,  she  has  an  accent.  She  goes  hastily  to  the  door  in 
the  back  of  the  stage. 
MINA  (calls).  Mrs.  Scroggins  !  Oh,  Mrs.  Scroggins  ! 

[A  tall  woman  opens  the  door  and  gestures  to  silence  Mina. 

She  has  a  long  neck  that  stretches  forward,  near-sighted  eyes 

with  which  she  is  always  examining  what  is  nearest,  and  a 

parrot  nose.     She  has  in  her  hand  a  brown  blanket. 
MRS.     SCROGGINS.     Sh     .  .  .    !     He's    asleep.     You    don't 

want  him  hollering  all  evening,  do  you  ? 
MINA.     I'll  just  take  a  look  at  him. 

[She  slips  past  Mrs.  Scroggins  into  the  other  room. 
MRS.  SCROGGINS  (tossing  the  blanket  on  the  mattress).     Aw, 

shucks !     He's  all  right  ...  if  you'd  let  him  alone. 

[Mina  reappears  smiling,  closing  door  carefully. 
MRS.  SCROGGINS.     Well,  I  ain't  hurt  him,  have  I  ?     Where's 

Hattie?     I  want  to  talk  to  her  ...  I  thought  you  two 

worked  in  the  same  laundry. 
MINA.     She    stayed    behind    for    something    to-night.     She 

wouldn't  tell  me.  .  .  .     You  know  how  quiet  she  is.     I 

just  had  to  run  ahead  and  see  if  my  baby  was  all  right. 

[She  takes  off  her  cape  and  battered  hat  and  hangs  them  on 

hooks  over  the  mattress. 


HATTIE 


MBS.  SCROGGINS  (huffily).  All  right!  I  ain't  going  to  eat 
him.  .  .  .  Here's  your  blanket.  But  now  let  me  tell 
you  something  ...  if  you  expect  to  stay  right  along  here 
as  a  steady  thing,  Hattie's  got  to  pay  me  more  for  this 
room.  You  said  when  you  come  you  was  going  to  stay  a 
few  days.  A  few  days !  It's  been  some  few !  Nearly 
three  weeks. 

MINA  (blinking  rapidly).  Ah,  Mrs.  Scroggins,  you  ain't 
goin'  to  put  up  the  rent  on  her !  Every  day  I  think  I 
hear  dot  my  Heinrich  has  got  a  job.  Sure  I  thought  it 
was  goin'  to  be  a  few  days ! 

MRS.  SCROGGINS.  You  Germans,  you  think  you  just  about 
own  the  country !  Here  I  been  takin'  care  of  your  squallin* 
kid  for  only  fifty  .  .  . 

MINA  (pleadingly).  I'll  pay  you  a  little  more  for  that  .  .  . 
lemme  see  .  .  .  only  I  don't  want  to  get  Hattie  into  trouble. 
Mrs.  Scroggins,  please  don't  say  nothin'  to  her  ...  she's 
been  so  good  to  me.  I  wasn't  used  to  workin'  right  along 
at  one  job  .  .  .  them  irons  seemed  so  heavy  to  me  . 
You  see,  little  Heinie  ain't  only  six  months  old,  and  I  give 
out,  the  first  day  .  .  .  Hattie,  she  was  the  only  one  was 
sorry  for  me  ...  she  brought  me  here  to  stay  so's  I  could 
be  pretty  near  to  my  work. 

MRS.  SCROGGINS.  Yes,  you  and  her's  been  as  thick  as  thieves. 
.  .  .  (Suddenly)  .  .  .  What'd  you  go  and  turn  her  against 
my  son  Tim,  for  ?  Hey  ?  That's  what  I'd  like  to  know ! 
[The  door  opens  and  Hattie  comes  in.  She  is  a  big,  raw- 
boned  girl,  seemingly  gruff.  She  has  had  few  friends  and 
seems  shy  and  suspicious.  She  looks  defiantly  at  Mrs. 
Scroggins.  She  is  carrying  three  packages,  which  she  lays 
down.  Mrs.  Scroggins  approaches  them,  peering  curiously. 

MRS.  SCROGGINS  (in  a  conciliatory  tone).  Well,  here  you  are  ! 
Been  shoppin'? 

HATTIE  (shortly) .     Where's  the  baby  ? 

MINA.     Oh,  he's  in  there  sleepin'  just  fine.  ...     I  thought 
I  wouldn't  wake  him  up. 
[Hattie  goes  into  the  next  room.     Mina  has  thrown  herself  on 


HATTIE  425 


the  cot  in  an  attitude  of  exhaustion.  Mrs.  Scroggins  wanders 
about  aimlessly,  Hattie  comes  back.  She  notices  Mrs.  Scrog 
gins  eyeing  the  packages  and  removes  her  things  deliberately. 
Finally  she  undoes  one  bundle,  a  loaf  of  bread.  She  starts 
to  put  it  in  the  cupboard,  then  puts  it  out  on  the  table  instead. 
With  it  she  sets  out  some  sausage. 

MRS.  SCROGGINS  (no  longer  able  to  contain  herself,  pokes  the 
large  bundle).  What  you  got  here,  Hattie? 

HATTIE  (sheepishly).     Nothin'. 

MRS.  SCROGGINS  (with  withering  sarcasm).  Seems  to  take  a 
terrible  lot  o'  good  paper  to  do  up  nothin'  in  ! 
[Hattie  looks  at  her  sullenly.  There  is  nothing  left  to  do  but 
to  open  the  package.  It  is  a  baby's  tin  bath  tub.  Mina 
gives  an  exclamation  of  pleasure.  While  Mrs.  Scroggins  is 
examining  the  tub,  bottom  side  up,  Hattie  slips  the  third 
package  in  the  bureau  drawer. 

MRS.  SCROGGINS.  For  the  land's  sakes  !  The  way  you  do  for 
that  child  .  .  .  you'd  think  he  was  your  first  born,  'stead 
of  another  girl's  .... 

MINA  (sitting  up,  much  enlivened  by  the  good  fortune  of  acquiring 
a  tub).  Ach,  I  must  go  to  phone  to  the  grosmutter  .  .  . 

MRS.  SCROGGINS.       To  who  ? 

MINA.  She's  .  .  .  Why,  my  husband's  mutter.  .  .  .  She's 
been  takin'  care  of  my  other  children  ever  since.  .  .  . 

MRS.  SCROGGINS.     Your  other  children  ? 

MINA  (proudly).     Sure!     I  got  two  nice  girls  .  .  .  one  can't 
see  so  very  good,  but  she's  getting  better  .  .  .  and  one 
more  boy.  .  .  .  Say,  Hattie,  you  got  two  nickels  for  this 
dime? 
[Hattie  gets  them  from  her  coat  pocket. 

MRS.  SCROGGINS.  For  the  love  o'  Gawd  !  And  you  so  little 
and  sick  like.  .  .  . 

MINA.     Oh,  I  ain't  really  sick ! 

[She  puts  on  her  dingy  cape,  but  no  hat,  and  goes  out. 

MRS.  SCROGGINS  (spitefully).  You  see  here,  Hattie.  .  .  . 
You're  throwin'  money  around  on  other  people's  brats, 
when  you  ought  to  be  havin'  some  of  your  own.  (flattie, 


426  HATTIE 


putting  coffee  on  the  stove  to  heat,  turns  suddenly  and  stares 
at  the  other  woman)  And  you  can  up  and  pay  me  a  dollar 
more  for  this  here  room;  understand?  You  make  good 
wages  ....  I  heard  tell  you  was  one  of  the  best  workers 
they  got,  doin'  that  fancy  ironin'.  (She  pauses  for  breath. 
Hattie  looks  at  her  steadily  without  answering.  Annoyed  at 
not  feeling  justified  in  her  demands,  Mrs.  Scroggins  tries 
to  work  herself  up  into  a  fit  of  indignation)  What  on 
earth  did  you  get  yourself  all  mixed  up  with  her  for,  any 
how? 

HATTIE  (muttering).     The  work  was  too  hard  for  her. 

MRS.  SCROGGINS.  Well,  you  fool,  you  can't  afford  to  start 
a  hospital  for  all  the  laundry  girls  that  ain't  feelin'  like 
workin',  can  you  ?  (Hattie  makes  no  reply,  which  irritates 
Mrs.  Scroggins,  who  cannot  understand  any  one  not  liking 
to  talk)  What  on  earth's  the  matter  with  you  lately,  any 
how?  You  go  around  with  your  jaw  hangin*  .  .  .  like 
this  .  .  .  (Makes  a  face  denoting  dejection)  Why  can't 
she  help  you  pay  for  the  room  ....  She  makes  good 
money  at  that  laundry,  too,  I  bet. 

HATTIE  (drily).     Good  money! 

MRS.  SCROGGINS  (stamping  her  foot).  You  drive  me  crazy 
just  repeating  what  I  says  !  Why  don't  she  pony  up,  I'm 
askin'  ? 

HATTIE  (in  a  low  tone).  Sends  it  to  the  other  kids.  Hus 
band's  lost  his  job. 

MRS.  SCROGGINS.  Oh,  yes.  That's  what  she's  tellin'  you,  I 
know.  I  guess,  maybe,  there  ain't  no  more  husband  than 
there  is  a  job  !  Ha  !  Ha  ! 

HATTIE  (hotly).     There  is  too! 

[As  they  talk  Hattie  unconsciously  draws  near  the  door,  for 
there  is  a  noise  of  thumping  outside,  going  along  the  hall. 
Hattie ,  drawn  up  tensely,  keeps  looking  toward  the  door.  The 
thumping  passes  without  stopping.  Her  shoulders  droop 
forward  dejectedly. 

MRS.  SCROGGINS     You  seen  him  yourself  ? 

HATTIE  (with  a  start).     Seen  him?     Seen  who? 


HATTIE  427 


MRS.  SCROGGINS  (with  exasperation).  There  you  go  again! 
Why  don't  you  listen  to  what  I'm  sayin'  ?  Seen  her  hus 
band,  of  course. 

HATTIE  (sullenly) .   Naw  !   When  he  come,  I  was  out  with  Tim. 

MRS.  SCROGGINS.  Now  you  take  my  word  for  it,  I've  seen 
the  world.  ...  I  know  these  here  soft-spoken  little 
chits.  .  .  . 

VOICE  OUTSIDE.     Say,  Maw! 

HATTIE  (jumping).  That's  Tim,  ain't  it,?  Why  don't  he 
.  .  .  s-stop  in  here  any  more  ? 

MRS.  SCROGGINS.     I  guess  you  know  that  as  well  as  me. 

HATTIE.     What  do  you  mean  ? 

MRS.  SCROGGINS.  You  know  all  right  ...  I  can  tell  by 
the  look  on  your  face.  What  d'ye  tell  him  you  wasn't 
goin'  with  him  no  more  unless  he  quit  sellin'  papers  ?  D'ye 
think  a  sperrited  feller  like  Tim  is  goin'  to  stand  for  that 
kind  o'  talk  ?  He  was  doin'  all  right  at  it,  too.  You  kep' 
at  him  till  he  nearly  went  an'  tuk  a  job  as  bartend  in 
O'Shaunessy's  saloon  down  here  at  the  corner  .  .  .  (With 
a  sneer)  .  .  .  You're  so  high  and  mighty  .  .  .  too  good 
for  him,  eh  ? 

HATTIE  (tensely,  with  clenched  fists).  No,  no.  That  wasn't 
it  at  all.  I  wanted  him  to  get  a  better  job,  something 
that  would  get  him  on  .  .  .  so  as  .  .  .  so  as  .  .  .1  didn't 
want  him  to  be  a  bartend,  though. 

MRS.  SCROGGINS.  Yes,  so  as  to  have  money  to  throw  around 
on  you. 

HATTIE.  No,  no  .  .  .  so  as  we  could  .  .  .  get  married  .  .  . 
sometime. 

MRS.  SCROGGINS.  He  works  hard  enough.  He  was  willing 
to  marry  you  on  what  he's  getting. 

HATTIE.  That's  not  enough  !  You  know  that's  not  enough  ! 
Why  look  at  Mina  .  .  .  she  says  .  .  . 

MRS.  SCROGGINS  (furiously) .  That  Mina!  I  knowed  it  was 
her  turned  you  against  him ! 

HATTIE  (slowly).  I  saw  .  .  .  from  her  .  .  .  you  got  to  be 
careful. 


428  HATTIE 


MBS.  SCROQGINS.  Careful  ?  Tim  would  make  any  girl  a 
good  husband !  There's  plenty  as  thinks  so  too. 

HATTIE  (on  the  verge  of  breaking  down).  I  didn't  go  to  make 
him  mad.  I  just  spoke  of  the  delicatessen  shop  .  .  .  they 
need  a  clerk  there.  Tim's  so  smart  ...  he  could  ...  he 
could  ...  I  hate  to  have  him  have  to  borrow  money  off 
of  me. 

MRS.  SCROGGINS  (hotly).  See  here!  Don't  you  come  a- 
complainin'  of  Tim  to  me  !  I've  always  humored  him  with 
his  lameness  and  all  ...  I  ain't  goin'  to  have  no  abusin' 
of  him.  You're  too  old  for  him  anyways  ....  He's  got 
another  girl  now. 

HATTIE  (with  effort) .     Who  do  you  mean  ? 

MRS.  SCROGGINS.     That  Sadie  Horst  .... 

HATTIE  (shrilly).  That  .  .  .  that  little  ...  she  ...  she 
makes  eyes  at  every  feller  .... 

MRS.  SCROGGINS.  Shut  up  your  insults.  She  ain't  makin' 
eyes  at  Tim.  .  .  .  She  means  business. 

VOICE  (from  back) .  Say,  Maw,  what  about  supper  ?  Do  I 
get  it  or  don't  I  ? 

MRS.  SCROGGINS  (annoyed) .  I'm  comin\  if  you'll  wait  a  second. 
[She  goes  out,  reopens  the  door  and  sets  a  clothes  basket  on  the 
mattress  with  a  bump.  Hattie  stares  at  the  door  a  moment, 
then  runs  to  the  basket,  takes  out  the  baby,  holds  him  close, 
hiding  her  face.  Through  the  window  comes  the  glow  of  a 
street  lamp.  Pause.  Mina  opens  the  door  and  enters. 

MINA.  Hattie  !  Ach,  there  you  are  !  Why  don't  you  light 
the  gas? 

[Mina  finds  a  match,  lights  the  gas  in  center  of  the  room. 
She  hangs  up  her  cape  and  holds  out  her  arms  for  the  baby. 

HATTIE  (in  a  husky  voice).  Say,  Mina,  can't  I  ...  fix  him 
and  give  him  a  bath  to-night  ?  It  kind  o'  takes  my  mind 
off  of  ... 

MINA  (solicitously).  Why,  Hattie,  what's  been  happening? 
Mrs.  Scroggins  ...  did  she  ...  did  she  stay  long  after 
I  went  out?  (Indignantly)  Did  she  sass  you  about  the 
rent  or  anything  ?  (Hattie  bends  over  the  baby,  but  does  not 


HATTIE  429 


answer.     Putting  an   arm   over   Rattle's   shoulder)     That 

Tim  .  .  .     Has  he  been  bothering  you  again  ? 
HATTIE    (throwing    off   Minors    arm;     in    a    tearful   voice). 

Botherin'?     Not  likely  he'll  bother  me  no  more!     He's 

got  another  girl. 
MINA.     Another  girl !     How  do  you  know  ?     Did   he   tell 

you? 
HATTIE.     No,  Mrs.  Scroggins  did.     (Suddenly)     You  never 

did  like  Tim !     I  wish  I'd  never  listened  to  you. 
MINA.     Mrs.  Scroggins !     Ach,  she  just  tries  to  make  you 

jealous !     Don't  you  pay  no  attention  to  that. 
HATTIE  (wistfully,  wanting  to  be  convinced).     Do  you  think 

that's  it? 
MINA  (heartily).     Sure!     Don't  you  see?     She  wants  that 

Tim  to  get  you.     She  wants  him  to  have  an  easy  time  .  .  . 

to  live  off  of  you  instead  of  off  of  her.     She  was  as  sweet 

as  honey  cakes  to  you  till  you  had  that  fight  with  him  .  .  . 

now  she's  a  little  grouchy. 
HATTIE  (her  spirits  rising  somewhat).     We'd  ought  to  be  a- 

givin'  him  his  bath. 

[Mina  gets  the  tub  and  fills  it  in  the  hall.     She  kneels  on  the 

other  side  of  it  from  Hattie. 

MINA.     Tim,  he  yust  waitin'  for  you  to  make  up  with  him. 
HATTIE  (undressing  the  baby).     Don't  you  be  too  sure.   Fel 
lers  here  ain't  so  faithful  as  they  are  .  .  .  some  places. 
MINA.     Well,  if  you  want  to  make  up  with  him,  you  stick 

to  what  I  told  you.  .  .  .     You  tell  him  you  won't  marry 

him  without  enough  to  bring  up  a  family  on.  ...     You 

better  give  him  to  me,  your  hand  is  shaky.     (Hattie  hands 

her  the  child,  cooing  to  him).  .  .  Look, he's  getting  fat  ... 

just  since  I  come  here  to  you. 
HATTIE  (in  a  dull  voice).     Aw,  you  needn't  worry  about  me 

and  Tim.     We  ain't  goin'  to  make  up. 
MINA  (to  the  baby) .     Ach,  you  was  a  little  kicker  !     Yust  see 

him  kick  .  .  .  Hattie,  you're  awful  touchy.     I  noticed  it 

with  the  girls  at  the  laundry.     You  seemed  like  you  was 

scared  of  Tim. 


430  HATTIE 


HATTIE  (shamefacedly).     Always  think  people  ain't  goin'  to 
like  me  ...  I  feel  so  kind  o'  awkward  and  ugly. 
[She  gets  a  towel  for  Mina. 

MINA.     Ach,  no,  you  ain't  so  bad. 

[She  blinks  at  her  friend  in  embarrassment. 

HATTIE.  Now  you,  you're  friendly  to  all  of  'em,  and  you 
make  me  feel  right  to  home  with  you. 

MINA.  Anyway,  you  got  the  best  heart  of  'em  all.  When  I 
was  so  sick,  it  was  you  who  took  me  home.  The  others 
said  they  was  sorry,  but  they  shied  off,  I  noticed  .  .  . 
(Wiping  the  child)  .  .  .  He  was  pretty  weak  when  he  was 
born,  but  I  think  he's  gaining  all  right  now. 

HATTIE  (hesitatingly).     The  other  ones,  are  they  strong? 

MINA  (after  a  moment).  The  two  oldest,  they  are.  I  had  a 
little  girl  that  died,  and  then  little  Elsa,  I  had  an  awful 
time  with  her  .  .  .  poor  little  thing  ...  I  used  to  wish  I 
could  feel  the  pains  for  her. 

HATTIE  (with  her  face  buried,  shuddering).  Yes,  it  don't  seem 
fair  for  them  to  start  out  without  a  chance  ,  •»  .  ain't  it 
funny  ?  Those  that  have  'em  don't  want  'em,  always  .  .  . 
and  there's  other  people,  that  hasn't  anybody  of  their 
own  .  .  . 

MINA  (reflectively).  It's  mighty  different  here  from  on  a 
farm  in  the  old  country.  Here  you  haf  to  like  a  feller 
pretty  much  before  you  want  to  take  a  chance  on  all  the 
trouble  .  .  .  (In  a  more  cheerful  voice)  .  .  .  Now  my  Hein- 
rich,  he's  so  different  to  most  of  the  Americans.  I  don't 
mind  the  trouble  .  .  .  if  we  .  .  .  if  we  could  only  stay  to 
gether. 

[She  puts  the  baby  in  the  basket  and  takes  the  tub  away  to 
empty  it. 

HATTIE.     Do  you  think  he  will  find  something  soon? 

MINA.  Oh,  yes,  I  know  he  will.  He  tries  so  hard  ...  I 
yust  know  how  crazy  he  is  for  to  get  us  all  together  again. 
[Her  face  lights  up  and  she  looks  much  younger. 

HATTIE  (wistfully) .  It  must  be  fine  to  be  so  sure  of  anybody. 
You  don't  mind  the  hard  work,  if  you  think  it's  getting 


HATTIE  431 


you  anywheres.     (Suddenly)     Now  what  am  I  workin' 
for,  I'd  like  to  know?     What  am  I  livin'  for? 

MINA  (alarmed  by  Hattie' s  unusual  violence).  Ach,  Hattie, 
you'll  get  somebody  of  your  own.  .  .  .  You'll  feel  better 
to-morrow,  maybe. 

HATTIE.  Somebody !  You  can't  understand  why  I  like 
Tim.  .  .  .  His  shiftlessness  just  makes  me  like  him  all  the 
more.  I  kind  o'  want  to  look  out  for  him.  It  ain't  his 
fault  his  mother  spoiled  him.  And  the  way  he  grins,  kind 
of  to  one  side,  and  his  blue  eyes  shinin',  and  all .  .  .1  guess 
I'm  a  fool. 
[She  breaks  down,  sobbing  hard. 

MINA  (patting  her  on  the  shoulder).  Say,  he'll  be  comin'  out 
from  his  supper  pretty  soon.  (She  goes  to  the  bureau  and 
pokes  about  in  the  drawer.  She  holds  up  a  little  white  dress, 
which  she  has  taken  out  of  the  paper  in  which  it  was  wrapped. 
To  divert  Hattie' s  mind)  Did  you  do  this,  Hattie  ?  When 
did  you  iron  it?  (Hattie  nods,  wiping  her  eyes)  When 
did  you  ?  It's  just  swell ! 

HATTIE  (with  an  occasional  sob) .  After  you  left  to-day.  The 
boss  let  me  use  the  fluter. 

MINA.  It's  lovely.  I  put  it  on  him  the  first  time  my  Hein- 
rich  is  to  see  him. 

[She  hunts  further  in  the  drawer  and  finally  brings  out  a 
piece  of  bright  green  ribbon,  which  she  takes  to  Hattie. 

MINA.     I  don't  wear  this  now,  try  it  on. 

[Hattie  shakes  her  head.  A  thumping  is  heard  in  the  hall. 
Hattie  suddenly  rouses  herself,  gets  up  and  takes  the  ribbon. 
She  ties  it  nervously  around  her  neck,  glancing  now  and  then 
furtively  in  the  little  cracked  mirror  over  the  bureau.  She 
wipes  hw  eyes.  The  thumping  goes  into  the  hall.  Mina 
opens  the  door,  and  motions  Hattie  towards  it.  Hattie, 
trembling,  does  not  move,  but  shrinks  back.  Mina  pulls  her 
with  all  her  might.  They  almost  struggle.  Hattie  finally 
stands  in  the  door,  pressed  against  the  casing.  She  breathes 
hard  with  a  rigid  face.  Mina  slips  back  and  busies  herself 
about  the  food. 


HATTIE 


HATTIE  (faintly).     Hello,  Tim! 

VOICE  (outside,  carelessly).     Hello,  Hat! 
[He  does  not  stop. 

HATTIE  (with  visible  effort  as  he  is  passing).  Say,  Tim,  can't 
you  come  in  ...  just  a  minute  ? 

[Tim  limps  into  the  room,  standing  just  inside  the  door.  He 
is  slightly  shorter  than  Hattie,  with  reddish  hair,  blue  eyes, 
and  a  thin  face,  with  a  sarcastic  smile  which  has  an  indefin 
able  charm  for  girls,  in  spite  of  his  infirmity.  A  short 
pause  ensues,  agonizing  for  Hattie,  boring  to  Tim,  and 
unnoticed  by  Mina,  who  is  scanning  Tim  carefully. 

HATTIE  (choking  a  little).     Make  you  acquainted  with  my 
friend,  Mrs.  Kleber. 
[Tim  murmurs  an  inarticulate  salutation,  looking  at  the  door. 

MINA.     Can't  you  set  down,  Mr.  Scroggins  ? 

TIM.  Naw,  I  can't.  .  .  .  Got  to  see  somebody  .  .  .  outside. 
[He  turns. 

HATTIE  (with  a  gasp) .     Right  .  .  .  right  away  ? 

MINA  (seeing  how  disturbed  Hattie  is).  Ach,  stay  awhile  and 
eat  somethin'  ...  or  have  a  cup  of  coffee. 

TIM  (looking  uncomfortably  toward  the  door).     Naw,  I  can't, 
sure  ...  I  just  eat.     I  got  a  date  .... 
[With  a  faint  smile. 

HATTIE  (throwing  her  pride  to  the  winds) .  You  don't  ever.  .  . 
make  dates  with  .  .  .  with  me,  no  more,  Tim. 

TIM.     Whose  fault's  that  ? 

HATTIE.  Oh,  Tim !  I  never  meant  to  throw  you  down. 
I  only  wanted  you  to  get  another  job  ...  for  your  own 
good.  .  .  . 

TIM.  Yes,  for  my  own  good.  Say,  I  can  picture  myself  in 
the  delicatessen  joint  there  among  the  pickles  and  cheeses 
and  sauerkraut !  Nobody  ever  goes  in  there  but  fat  old 
Dutch  women.  I'm  off  the  Germans,  I  tell  you.  (Hattie 
looks  ready  to  faint)  'Stead  of  being  outside  with  the  fel 
lers  that  sells  for  me,  goin'  where  I  please,  seein'  all  that 
goes  on,  talkin'  to  all  kinds  of  folks  .  .  .  that's  my  job,  and 
it's  as  good  or  better  than  any  .  .  .  it's  good  enough  for  me. 


HATTIE  433 


MINA.     But  you  don't  get  ahead. 

TIM  (resenting  Mind's  interference  and  her  knowledge  of  his 
having  been  repulsed).  Well,  there's  others  as  ain't  so  fussy 
about  my  gettin'  ahead. 

HATTIE  (taking  a  sharp  breath  and  moving  toward  him).  Tim, 
forget  what  I  said.  I  don't  care  what  you  do  ... 
I.  .  . 

[Tim,  showing  off  before  the  other  woman,  holds  up  his  hand 
humorously  to  ward  off  Hattie.  He  smiles  crookedly,  not 
unkindly. 

TIM.  It's  pretty  late  to  come  honeyin'  round  me  now.  How 
d'ye  know  I  ain't  goin'  to  get  married  .  .  .  maybe  this 
afternoon?  There's  somebody  outside. 

HATTIE.     Tim  .  .  .  you're  not.  .  .  . 

TIM  (loftily).  Well,  maybe  I'll  put  it  off  a  day  or  two  .  .  . 
but  I'm  goin'  to  get  hitched,  all  right.  ...  So  long. 
[He  limps  out  with  unusual  speed.  Hattie  waits  a  moment, 
then  runs  after  him.  She  calls  him  once,  but  it  is  muffled  in 
the  bang  of  the  door.  She  looks  out  the  window  in  the 
hall  and  Mina  hears  her  give  a  sharp  ejaculation.  Then 
she  reenters  the  room,  staggering  a  little,  and  tears  the 
ribbon  from  her  neck,  dropping  it  and  treading  on  it.  She 
throws  herself  face  downward  on  the  mattress.  For  a 
moment  Mina  watches  her  with  clasped  hands  and  an  agon 
ized  expression,  not  daring  to  speak. 

MINA.     Hattie.  .  .  . 

HATTIE  (frantically).  What  did  you  make  me  see  him  for? 
What  did  you  push  me  for  ?  I'm  so  ashamed.  .  .  .  Oh, 
I'm  so  ashamed. 

MINA  (in  a  small  voice).     I    ...  I  knew  you  wanted  to  talk 
to  him.  .  .  .  Did  you  see  who  was  outside  ? 
[She  blinks  apprehensively  at  Hattie. 

HATTIE  (smothering  her  sobs  in  the  bed).  That  Sadie  .  .  . 
that  girl  with  the  black  eyes.  .  .  .  Oh,  oh  !  I  always  knew 
he  would  like  somebody  else. 

MINA  (trying  to  soothe  her).  Never  mind,  Hattie,  he  wasn't 
good  enough  for  you  anyway ! 


434  HATTIE 


HATTIE  (bursting  forth  vehemently).  Not  good  enough  !  Not 
good  enough  !  (With  a  laugh  like  a  scream)  .  .  .  Who's 
good  enough  then?  Who's  good  enough?  Who's  ever 
goin'  to  look  at  me  ?  He's  the  only  feller  I  ever  had.  It's 
better  to  have  one  like  him  than  nobody  at  all.  .  .  . 

MINA.     Ach,  poor  Hattie,  I'm  so  sorry.  .  .  . 

HATTIE.  You,  .  .  .  you  spoiled  my  last  chance.  You  told 
me  not  to  marry  him  ...  I  was  a  coward  ...  I  was  afraid 
...  I  can  just  see  that  Sadie's  black  eyes.  .  .  . 

MINA  (feeling  that  she  has  brought  disaster,  and  sobbing  more 
than  Hattie) .  Ach,  Hattie,  an'  you  bin  so  good  to  me  too. . . . 
[She  creeps  up  to  Hattie  and  takes  her  hand.  Seeing  that 
Hattie  does  not  resent  it,  she  puts  her  arm  about  her  and  they 
cry  together. 

MINA  (sitting  up,  trying  to  divert  Hattie).  Say,  we  ain't  ate  our 
supper.  .  .  .  (Hattie  makes  no  answer.  She  takes  the 
coffee  from  the  stove  and  pours  out  a  cupful)  Come  on, 
Hattie,  you  better  have  a  bite  .  .  .  (Hattie  shakes  her  head) 
...  A  cup  of  this  kaffee  will  do  you  good. 

HATTIE  (drags  herself  up  and  leans  over  the  basket).  He  ain't 
had  his  ...  (sobs)  .  .  .  milk.  (Mina  gets  the  baby's  bottle, 
but  Hattie  takes  it  from  her.  She  pours  milk  into  a  saucepan 
to  heat.  She  goes  into  the  hall  to  rinse  the  bottle,  then  tries  to 
fill  it  from  the  pan.  Turning  suddenly  to  Mina)  How  old 
are  you? 

MINA  (surprised).     I  ...  guess  I'm  twenty-six. 

HATTIE  (tonelessly) .  You  got  four  children,  ain't  you?.  .  . 
(She  lets  the  milk  drip  on  the  floor)  And  I'm  thirty-seven 
.  .  .  thirty-seven  years  old,  and  .  .  . 

MINA  (changing  the  subject) .  Look  out,  Hattie,  all  the  milk 
is  spilling.  Leave  a  little  in  the  pan,  we  can  feed  him  again 
in  the  night  .  .  .  the  way  you  did  last  night.  Ach,  Gott ! 
How  tired  I  was  last  night.  Anyway,  Hattie,  you  got  your 
strength ! 

HATTIE  (bitterly) .     What  good's  that  ? 

MINA.  Last  night  when  you  was  so  good  to  get  up  and 
feed  him,  I  thought  for  a  minute  I  had  my  good  Heinrich 


HATTIE  435 


back.     You  bin  so  awful  good,  I'd  like  to  help  you  some 
time.  .  .  .     I'd  like  to  do  something  nice  for  you. 
[Hattie  gives  the  baby  his  bottle  and  stands  watching  him. 
Mina  is  putting  away  the  food. 
HATTIE.     Lemme  take  care  of  him,  then. 

[There  is  a  knock  at  the  door.     Hattie  starts  violently,  runs 
toward  it,  then  stops  to  get  her  breath. 
HATTIE  (in  a  loud  whisper).     Did  you  hear  anybody 
come  up  ...  did  you,  Mina  ?     We  was  talkin'  and  maybe 
didn't  hear.  .   .   . 
MINA  (also  agitated).     Open  the  door,  quick. 

[The  knock  is  repeated  and  Hattie  opens  the  door,  so  that  Mina 
does  not  at  first  see  who  it  is.  From  Hattie' s  attitude  Mina 
knows  it  is  not  Tim. 

VOICE  (outside).  Say,  my  wife  Mina  ...  she  bin  here? 
[Mina  runs  to  the  door  and  pulls  in  a  big  man  with  clean 
skin  and  a  shock  of  blond  hair,  his  clothes  those  of  a  work 
man.  Hattie  draws  back.  The  couple  stand  looking  joyfully 
into  each  other's  eyes,  then  Mina  with  a  little  cry  throws  her 
arms  about  his  neck.  Hattie  turns  away,  bends  over  the 
basket,  and  seeing  they  do  not  notice  her,  picks  up  the  baby. 
The  two  whisper,  and  Heinrich's  voice  rises  as  he  says 
something  in  German.  He  kisses  his  wife  below  the  ear,  and 
Mina  smiles 

MINA  (remembering  they  are  not  alone).  Say,  Hattie,  what  do 
you  think  ?  He's  bin  and  got  a  job  in  Brooklyn,  driving 
a  wagon  for  a  big  grocer.  He's  took  a  room  already  in 
Brooklyn,  and  he's  got  the  wagon  downstairs,  right  now 
to  take  us  over  in.  He  wanted  to  surprise  me. 
HEINRICH.  Where's  the  little  one  ?  Ach,  so,  here  he  is. 

[He  takes  the  baby  from  Hattie  clumsily. 
MINA  (delightedly).     Ain't  he  got  fat,  Heinrich? 
HEINRICH  (beaming  and  laying  the  baby  in  the  basket).     Oh, 
Mina,  I  brought  some  boxes  that  you  can  put  your  things 
in.     You  don't  have  to  carry  them  in  the  shawl.     I  better 
go  get  them  while  you  get  ready. 
[He  goes  out. 


436  HATTIE 


MINA  (excitedly).  He  thinks  of  every  single  thing.  Ain't 
he  a  fine  man  ?  And  so  good.  He  says  he  got  a  job  where 
they  let  him  drive  horses.  (She  spreads  her  shawl  and  piles 
a  few  things  in)  You  see  he  lost  his  job  before  'cause 
they  changed  the  horses  to  having  autos  ...  he  likes  so 
much  better  to  drive  horses  ...  he  likes  them. 
[She  sees  Hattie  is  not  listening. 

HATTIE  (in  a  high  unnatural  voice).     You  goin'  to  take  . 
the  baby  .  .  .  away? 

MINA.     What  you  say  ? 

HATTIE.     You  goin'  to  take  .... 
[Pointing  to  the  basket. 

MINA  (in  amazement).  Take  my  little  Heinie?  Why,  what 
you  think  I  do  ? 

HATTIE.  Couldn't  you  leave  him  .  .  .  just  a  few  days  .  .  . 
till  I  got  used  to  bein'  alone  ? 

MINA.     Leave  him  here  ?     How  could  I  leave  him  here  ? 

HATTIE  (desperately)  You  said  .  .  .  maybe  you'd  do  some 
thing  for  me  ...  I'll  be  all  alone,  and  .  .  . 

MINA  (after  a  pause,  much  concerned) .  Yes,  that's  right  .  .  . 
I  been  so  happy,  I  forgot  all  about  that. 

HATTIE.     You  got  all  the  others,  and  your  husband  .  .  . 

MINA  (very  doubtfully).  But  I'm  afraid  .  .  .  supposin'  he 
gets  sick,  or  ... 

HATTIE.  I'll  let  you  know  right  away.  I  know  how  to  take 
good  care  of  him.  Oh,  please,  Mina. 

MINA  (uncertainly,  not  knowing  how  to  refuse).  Well,  I'd  like 
to  do  it  for  you,  sure  I  would,  Hattie,  but  I  got  to  see  what 
Heinrich  says. 

HATTIE.  He  won't  let  me  ...  you  beg  him  .  .  .  can't  you 
make  him  ? 

[She  holds  Minors  arm  in  a  frantic  grip.     Heinrich  enters 
with  two  large  boxes.     Hattie  drops  Mina's  arm. 

HEINRICH.  Whew !  I  run  up  all  them  steps.  Here's  your 
trunks,  Mina. 

[Mina  piles  her  belongings  into  the  box,  glances  at  her  husband, 
but  says  nothing.     She  looks  around  the  room  to  see  if  she 


HATTIE  437 


has  left  anything.     Hattie  hands  her  a  saucepan.     Heinrich 
looks   around,  too,  finds  an  empty  baby's  bottle  and  puts 
that    in.     Hattie   stares   at   it,  looking  from   it   to    Mina. 
Mina  sees  the  tin  bath  tub,  which  she  does  not  take. 
HEINRICH   (pleasantly  unconscious  of  anything).     Well,  you 

don't  need  so  many  trunks,  eh  ? 

MINA  (slowly).     Heinrich,  Hattie,  she  been  awful  good  to  me. 
HEINRICH.     Much  obliged  to  you,  Miss,  I'm  sure.     It  was 
fine  for  you  and  Mina  to  be  company  for  one  another.     I'd 
like  to  pay  you  for  half  your  room.     How  much  do  you 
give  for  it  ?     (Hattie  shakes  her  head  and  mumbles)     Yes, 
yes,  go  ahead,  I  can  afford  to  pay  you. 
[He  sets  the  empty  box  on  end  by  the  door.     Hattie  looks  at 
him  appealingly. 
MINA  (not  knowing  how  to  begin).     Heinrich,  she  don't  want 

the  money,  but  .  .  . 

HEINRICH.  Well,  if  she  won't  have  it  ...  much  obliged, 
Miss,  I'm  sure.  .  .  .  Come  on,  Mina,  you  bring  Heinie,  and 
I'll  take  this. 

[He  starts  to  take  up  the  full  box. 
MINA  (trying  to  gain  time).     Maybe  can't  we  stay  here  a  little 

while  longer  ? 
HEINRICH  (straightening  up).     Stay  here?     It's  getting  late 

and  we  got  a  long  way  to  go. 

MINA.     Well,  you  see,  Hattie,  she's  goin'  to  be  awful  lone 
some.     Maybe   we   could   leave   .  .  .   little   Heinie   .  .  . 
with  her. 
HEINRICH.     That's  a  good  joke  .  .  .  leave  little  Heinie,  eh  ? 

His  father  ain't  seen  him  for  some  time. 
MINA.     No,  but  really,  Hattie,  she  would  like  to  keep  him  . 

just  a  little  while ;    she  can  feed  him  fine  now. 
HEINRICH.     You  giving  away  your  baby?     You're  crazy, 

Mina? 

MINA.     Hattie,  she  goin'  to  be  awful  lonesome. 
HEINRICH.     What's  the  matter  with  you,  Mina  ?     You  ain't 
never    complained    about    takin'    care    of    the    children 
before. 


438  HATTIE 


How  can  she  look  out  for  him  like  his  mother?       (More 
sternly)     You  and  she  been  havin'  too  easy  a  time,  yes  ? 

MINA  (reproachfully).     Ach,  Heinrich. 

HEINRICH.     Now  come  on,  no  more  nonsense ! 

MINA  (more  and  more  faintly) .  But  I  promised  her  I  would 
do  something  for  ... 

HEINRICH  (used  to  being  obeyed  and  getting  angry) .  Sure  you 
can  do  something  for  her,  but  not  give  her  your  child, 
Gott  im  Himmel ! 

MINA  (breathing  fast).     Not  for  one  night  ? 

HEINRICH.  Why  don't  she  get  an  orphan,  if  she  don't  want 
a  family  of  her  own  ?  (Mina  tries  to  stop  him,  but  he  raises 
his  voice)  There's  too  many  unmarried  women  in  this 
country.  All  they  want  is  an  easy  time  ...  no  respon 
sibility. 

[Haltie  has  drawn  further  back  in  the  room.  Heinrich  takes 
the  child  summarily  and  the  box  under  the  other  arm  and 
stalks  out  of  the  room.  Mina,  with  alarm,  goes  toward 
Hattie,  who  stares  at  her  fixedly.  Mina  murmurs  "Good 
bye,  Hattie,  good  bye,  I  ...  I'll  come  and  see  you." 
Hattie  does  not  answer  and  Mina  slips  out.  The  baby  cries, 
Hattie  listens  and  takes  a  few  steps  toward  the  door.  She 
turns  and  looks  about  the  room,  sees  the  green  ribbon  on 
the  floor,  picks  it  up,  and  starts  across  the  room,  stumbles 
over  the  bathtub,  picks  it  up,  stands  holding  it  for  a  moment, 
and  then  lets  it  fall  with  a  clatter  and  throws  herself  across  the 
mattress. 

CURTAIN 


DREGS 

FRANCES  PEMBERTON  SPENCER 

MRS.  FRANCES  PEMBERTON  SPENCER  is  a  resident  of  Los 
Angeles,  California,  where  she  is  at  present  turning  out 
eighteen  and  more  synopses  of  scenarios  a  week,  besides  doing 
a  great  amount  of  critic  work  and  revising.  In  addition  to 
this,  however,  she  has  found  time  to  write  a  few  plays,  all  of 
which  have  been  successfully  produced  and  one  of  which, 
"Dregs",  received  a  first  prize  from  the  Plays  and  Players  of 
Philadelphia. 

Mrs.  Spencer  states  that  "Dregs"  was  not  a  sudden  in 
spiration,  but  on  the  contrary,  was  written  in  order  to  keep 
her  from  being  bored  by  life  in  a  sanatorium  where  she  was 
trying  to  recuperate  from  a  case  of  shattered  nerves.  The 
play  began  as  a  collaboration,  but  the  partnership  dissolved 
almost  immediately  when  it  was  found  that  the  two  authors 
disagreed  entirely  upon  the  kind  of  person  who  leads  a 
crook's  life.  Mrs.  Spencer  maintained  that  the  fashionable, 
charming  person,  who  is  so  very  often  seen  as  a  crook  upon  the 
stage,  is  not  true  to  life,  for  when  he  is  so  charming  he  is 
not  under  the  necessity  of  leading  a  crook's  life,  but  may  be 
a  president,  a  moving  picture  actor,  or  anything  else  he 
pleases.  With  this  theory,  Mrs.  Spencer  began  her  own 
creation  of  the  plot.  When  it  was  presented  by  the  Plays 
and  Players  it  was  a  great  success,  and  won  by  a  big  majority 
over  the  two  other  plays  which  were  chosen  for  the  contest. 

Mrs.  Spencer's  other  plays  are  :  "In  That  Darkest  Hour", 
"Patriotism",  and  "The  Eternal  Triangle." 


DREGS 


BY  FRANCES  PEMBERTON  SPENCER 


"Dregs"  was  originally  produced  by  the  Plays  and  Players, 
at  the  Little  Theatre,  Philadelphia,  on  May  8,  1916. 

Original  Cast 

JIM Mr.  Henry  C.  Sheppard 

NANCE Mrs.  Frances  Pemberton  Dade 

THE  BOY Miss  Emma  Fegley  Mearns 

THE  DETECTIVE  ....  Mr.  Vinton  Freedley 

POLICEMAN Mr.  Howard  F.  Brinton 

Director  —  Mrs.  C.  Yarnall  Abbott 


All  rights  reserved. 

Application  for  the  right  of  performing  "  Dregs  "  must  be  made  to  Mrs.  Frances 
Pemberton  Spencer,  care  of  Little,  Brown  and  Company,  34  Beacon  Street,  Boston, 
Mass. 


DREGS 
A  MELODRAMA  IN  ONE  ACT 

TIME.     The  Present. 

SCENE.  A  room  distinctly  sordid  in  appearance,  the  furnish 
ings  unhappily  combining  the  kitchen,  dining,  parlor,  and  bed 
room  all  in  one.  Up  stage  to  the  right,  an  unvarnished  wooden 
table  with  an  oilcloth  covering.  Above  this  two  shelves  hold 
some  battered-looking  dishes,  one  tin  and  one  china  cup.  Door 
at  center  back.  Up  stage  to  the  left,  a  dilapidated  folding  bed, 
down  stage  left,  an  old-fashioned  stove  built  into  the  wall  with 
shelf  above.  A  kitchen  chair  is  facing  it.  A  depressing  rem 
nant  of  upholstery  and  satin,  falsely  posing  as  an  "easy -chair", 
holds  the  center  of  the  stage.  To  the  right  of  this  a  musty  look 
ing  lounge  decorated  with  an  equally  musty  looking  pillow  and 
an  untidy  scattering  of  woman  s  clothes. 

As  the  curtain  rises  Nance  is  discovered  sitting  hunched  up 
close  to  stove.  That  the  coals  are  not  "burning  brightly"  is 
quite  evident,  since  her  hands  are  almost  touching  them  and  her 
contracted  position  suggests  anything  but  warmth.  She  looks 
about  the  room  vaguely  until  her  eyes  light  on  a  cigarette  box 
that  rests  upon  the  center  chair.  She  crosses  stage  and  opens  it 
eagerly.  It  is  empty.  She  throws  it  impatiently  upon  floor 
and  returns  to  former  position  at  stove.  Discovers  a  cigarette 
stump  under  it ;  lights  it  from  matches  on  shelf,  inhales  a  long 
puff  and  sinks  back  into  smoky  meditation. 

The  door  opens  and  Jim  enters.  He  is  breathing  quickly  and 
rather  heavily,  partly  from  excitement,  partly  from  the  weight 
of  the  child  that  he  carries  in  his  arms. 

Nance  goes  forward  with  something  of  the  adoration  of  a  dog 
/or  its  master  showing  in  her  eyes. 


444  DREGS 


NANCE.     Hello,  Jim.     (Then,  seeing  the  child  she  stops}  Why  ! 

What  in  Hell?     A  child  ! 
JIM  (peremptorily).     Lock  the  door. 

[She  obeys  quickly. 
NANCE.       Where'd  ye  get  him  ?  —  What  are  ye  goin'  to  do 

with  him  ?     Why  did  you  bring  him  here  ? 
JIM  (moving  toward  couch).     Move  those  things. 

[She  obeys  and  the  clothes  are  dropped  upon  the  floor.     He  lets 

the  child  slide  with  rough  carelessness  from  his  arms  to  the 

couch. 
NANCE  (suppressed  exclamation  of  dismay).     Yer  cruel  rough 

handlin'  a  kid. 
JIM  (laughing  sardonically).     He  ain't  likely  to  object  at  the 

present  time. 

NANCE.     Ye  don't  mean  —  he  ain't  — 
JIM.     Yep  —  doped,  —  that's  what  he  is. 
NANCE.     Jim  !     Jim  !  hadn't  I  better  try  to  rouse  him  ?     He 

looks  fearful  strange.     Hadn't  I  better  wake  him  ?     Hadn't 

I,  Jim  ? 

[She  leans  over  the  boy. 
JIM.     And  have  him  rouse  the  whole  police  force  with  his 

yells  ?     Damn  ye.     He's  all  right.     It's  only  one-sixteenth 

grain  of  morphine.     Here's  the  rest  of  it.     (Takes  small 

box  from  pocket.     Grimly)     I'm  saving  it ;  if  things  don't 

pan  out  right  he'll  need  a  bigger  dose  next  time. 

[Puts  drug  back  in  pocket,  removes  coat  and  throws  it  over 

chair,  center. 
NANCE  (with  a  little  moan,  covering  her  face  with  her  hands). 

Gawd,  ye  have  kidnapped  him  then  ? 
JIM.     Did  ye  think  I  was  hired  as  his  wet  nurse?     (Nance 

moans  again)     Here,  brace  up.     No  hysterics.     This  is 

going  to  be  the   biggest   thing   we   ever   pulled  —  if  ye 

keep  yer  wits  about  ye. 

NANCE  (with  an  effort  at  control).     Whose  child  is  he ? 
JIM.     Did  ye  ever  hear  of  Judge  Freeman  ? 
NANCE   (with  wide,  awe-stricken  eyes).     Freeman,  the  mil 
lionaire  ? 


DREGS  445 


JIM  (with  emphasis).     The  multi-millionaire. 

NANCE.  Jim  !  This  ain't  the  kid  Freeman  has  jest  adopted, 
that  the  papers  is  all  talkin'  about  and  showin'  pictures  of 
and  all  that. 

JIM.  Yes,  it's  his  legally  adopted  son  all  right.  Of  course 
the  free  advertisin'  they  give  him  does  add  to  the  danger, 
but  if  we  win  —  we'll  get  at  least  twenty  thousand  each. 

NANCE  (in  a  low  tone).  And  if  we  lose,  at  least  twenty  years 
is  comin'  to  us  both. 

JIM.  Oh,  ye  white-faced  snivellin'  female !  Can't  ye  do 
anything  but  croak  ? 

NANCE  (swallowing  the  insult  submissively).  Are  ye  goin'  to 
tell  me  how  ye  swiped  him,  Jim  ? 

JIM  (eyeing  her  suspiciously).  No,  I  ain't,  nor  how  I'm  goin' 
to  get  rid  of  him  again.  Taxi  Louis  is  in  this  game  with  me 
and  I  guess  we'll  play  our  hands  without  yer  help.  Ye 
can  get  out  if  ye  want  to ;  there  ain't  no  ties  between  us 
that  need  hold  ye  here. 

NANCE  (wincing).  Don't,  Jim.  I'd  rather  ye  beat  me  than 
talk  to  me  like  that  —  Is  it  my  fault  a  minister  ain't  said 
words  above  our  heads  ?  —  Could  a  wife  be  f aithf uler  ?  — 
Love  ye  more  ?  —  Don't  I  obey  ye  absolute  ? 

JIM.     Then  what  in  Hell  is  wrong  ? 

NANCE.  This  deal  is,  Jim,  —  so  wrong  it  scares  me.  I 
never  balked  before  —  ye  know  that.  I've  stole  fer  ye, 
lied,  done  any  crooked  thing  ye  told  me  to. 

JIM.  Cut  it.  Ye  was  crooked  when  we  met.  I  plucked  ye 
off  the  prison  steps. 

NANCE  (eagerly).  That's  just  it.  That's  what  I'm  sayin'. 
I've  always  been  a  bad  un.  We're  just  two  seeds,  Jim, 
you  and  me,  two  seeds  that  was  planted  in  the  mud. 
Gawd  hisself  must  find  excuse  for  us ;  don't  his  own  flowers 
stretch  up  towards  the  sun? 

JIM.     Ah,  what  are  ye  drivin*  at  ? 

NANCE.  Don't  ye  see?  Oh,  don't  ye  understand?  We 
gotta  live,  and  so  we  pick  pockets,  play  any  con  games 
that  we  can  —  but  kidnappin',  stealin'  a  helpless  little 


446  DREGS 


child  and  sellin'  him  for  gold  —  that's  different.     Hor 
rible  !     It'll  bring  its  punishment. 

JIM.     Rot,  it  don't  hurt  the  kid  if  they  take  him  back  again. 

NANCE.  But  suppose  they  don't  take  him  back.  Suppose 
the  Judge  decides  a  kid  out  of  a  charity  home  ain't  worth 
payin'  twenty  thousand  for,  what  then  ? 

JIM.  Do  ye  think  me  a  fool?  Do  ye  suppose  I  haven't 
looked  into  all  that?  He'll  pay  $20,000,  double  that  if 
I  choose  to  ask  it ;  he's  dippy  over  the  kid.  Would  he 
made  it  heir  to  all  his  millions  if  he  wasn't?  What's 
twenty  or  forty  or  eighty  thousand  dollars  to  a  man  like 
him?  He'll  pay.  He'll  pay  just  what  I  choose  to  bleed 
him  for  (savagely)  or  by  God  I'll  — 

NANCE  (down  on  her  knees  beside  his  chair) .  No  !  No  !  Jim  ! 
Don't  say  it,  don't  swear  no  oath  like  that.  Yer  queer 
hard-set  when  once  ye've  said  a  thing.  Don't  yer  see 
what  yer  doin'  ?  Boltin'  the  jail  door  from  the  inside, 
buildin'  your  own  scaffold.  Look  at  all  the  kidnappin* 
cases  that  ye  know.  How  many  gets  away  with  it  ?  The 
whole  world's  yer  detective,  even  the  crooks;  yer  own 
kind'll  despise  you. 

(He  rises,  throwing  off  her  hands  which  clutch  in  frantic 
entreaty.  Crosses  left)  Take  the  child  back.  Just  this 
once  do  what  I  ask,  do  it,  Jim.  Ye  can  cook  up  a  story 
about  findin'  him  wanderin'  along  the  street.  Ye  gotta  do 
what  I  ask  ye.  Take  him  back. 
[Her  voice  rises  hysterically. 

JIM  (shaking  her  savagely  and  putting  his  hand  across  her  mouth) . 
Swallow  that  or  I'll  put  ye  both  to  sleep. 

NANCE.  Ye-es,  I'm  tryin'  to.  (She  slips  her  arms  about  his 
neck)  No,  don't  shove  me  away.  Don't  ye  want  me  close 
like  this  ? 

JIM.     I  don't  want  no  coward  woman. 

NANCE.  Do  ye  think  I  wouldn't  go  through  Hell  if  ye  could 
face  it  with  me  ?  It  ain't  the  fear  of  prison,  Jim,  it's  the 
separatin'.  Twenty  years  they'd  send  us  up  for,  twenty 
years  apart!  When  we  met  again  perhaps  ye  wouldn't 


DREGS  447 


be  so  different ;  yer  a  man,  but  I'd  be  a  bent,  wrinkled,  yel 
low  thing,  jest  a  thing  that  ye'd  spit  at  fer  darin'  to  look 
ye  in  the  face.  What's  twenty  or  forty  thousand,  Jim, 
against  the  strength  of  yer  arms,  the  softness  of  me,  the 
bein'  young  together  ?  Why,  even  when  youVe  beat  me 
the  pain's  a  kind  of  hurtin'  joy.  Twenty  thousand. 
Why,  Jim,  there's  things  that  Mr.  Rockefeller,  with 
all  his  millions,  couldn't  buy. 

JIM  (with  an  effort  shaking  off  the  influence  of  her  appeal).  It 
ain't  no  use,  Nance. 

[He  passes  left,  picking  up  his  hat  and  starting  towards  the 
door. 

NANCE.     Jim,  where  are  ye  goin'  ? 

JIM.  A  woman  always  runs  to  fear  and  pity.  I  don't  trust 
ye.  I'm  goin'  to  'phone  Louis  to  bring  his  taxi  here  and 
take  the  kid  away. 

NANCE.  Jim,  for  Gawd's  sake,  there  ain't  nothing  in  this 
world  ye  could  ask  of  me,  I  wouldn't  do  for  ye.  Just  this 
one  —  for  Gawd's  sake  — 

JIM.  Cut  it.  (Nance  stares  at  him  a  moment,  throws  herself 
face  downward  into  chair  on  which  his  coat  is  lying.  It  is 
an  acknowledgment  of  defeat.  She  sobs,  Jim  opens  door,  but 
closes  it  again.  He  stands  looking  down  at  her  and  then 
sinks  into  chair  at  left.  He  covers  his  face  with  his  hands, 
remaining  motionless  until  her  sobs  have  quieted,  then  slowly, 
and  evidently  with  an  effort,  he  speaks)  I  tell  ye  it  ain't 
no  use,  Nance.  It's  mebbe  all  true,  what  ye've  been  sayin', 
I  dunno  —  it  makes  no  difference.  If  I'm  jailed  for  all 
time,  if  I've  got  to  swing  for  it,  I'm  goin  to  see  this 
through.  If  ye  want  to  listen  —  I'll  try  to  make  ye 
understand. 

I'll  begin  where  ye  spoke  of  us  bein'  two  seeds  that  was 
planted  in  the  mud.  Life  didn't  start  me  that  way.  Oh, 
I  hadn't  any  fancy  riches,  but  my  people  was  —  respect- 
able  and  I  was  straight  enough,  until  I  run  to  seed.  I  guess 
it's  an  ordinary  happenin'  —  go  to  any  ten-cent  movie  and 
ye'll  see  it  on  the  screen.  Young  man  falls  in  love,  marries. 


448  DREGS 

Love!  I  thought  Gawd  proved  hisself  by  creatin'  her. 
He  comes  home  from  work  one  night,  finds  a  letter ;  she's 
gone  off  with  another  man.  At  the  end  of  a  few  months 
the  man  tires  of  her,  taunts  her  with  desertin'  of  her  child 
and  husband,  she  comes  back  home,  dies. 
I  guess  the  movie  actors  has  got  more  strength  than  I  had. 
The  boy  had  heart  trouble,  a  leakin'  valve  the  Doctor  called 
it.  There  was  the  Hell  o'  death  behind  me,  and  it  looked 
as  though  the  future  was  a-holdin'  it  again.  I  paid  a 
woman  half  my  wages  to  look  after  the  boy,  but  he  kept 
gettin'  worse.  I  took  to  drinkin' ;  it  seemed  to  ease  some- 
thin'  inside  of  me  that  burned.  The  boss  warned  me,  but 
I  wouldn't  stop ;  then  one  day  he  fired  me.  There  was  a 
row ;  I  beat  him  up.  After  that  there  wasn't  no  chance  of 
gettin'  other  work. 

If  it  hadn't  been  for  the  boy,  I  would  have  ended  it  all, 
cashed  in ;  but  the  woman  had  gone  when  I  couldn't  pay 
her.  There  was  just  him  and  me  to  face  things  —  it  seemed 
to  bring  us  closer.  I  couldn't  chuck  him  —  my  little  pal. 
I  quit  drinkin',  tried  —  My  God,  how  I  did  try  to  get  work, 
but  luck  all  played  against  me  —  I  suppose  I  was  a  pretty 
rough-lookin'  customer,  all  my  clothes  was  hocked  except 
the  suit  I  wore ;  in  the  scrap  with  the  foreman  he'd  man 
aged  to  plant  his  fist  inside  my  eye  —  it  didn't  want  to  heal. 
There  was  a  discouragin'  afternoon  when  I  come  in  and  the 
boy  didn't  shout  and  run  to  meet  me,  but  just  lay  a  smilin' 
little  heap  upon  the  floor.  That  night  I  held  up  a  man  — 
successful.  The  swag  lasted  for  a  week.  But  I  was  too 
green  to  know  the  ropes,  and  the  third  time  that  I  crooked 
they  caught  me  in  a  pawnshop  with  the  goods  on. 
I  was  "sent  up"  fer  a  year.  I  knew  I  deserved  the  medi 
cine,  so  I  didn't  howl  against  the  dose,  but  kept  on  "good 
behavior"  the  whole  term. 

When  they  let  me  out  o'  jail,  I  went  straight  to  the  charity 
that  had  my  boy  in  charge.  I'd  learned  my  lesson,  and  I 
meant  to  live  straight  and  decent  when  I  got  my  boy  again. 
I  could  hardly  wait  to  hold  him  in  my  arms.  I  couldn't 


DREGS  449 


understand  when  they  wouldn't  let  me  see  him.  (In 
tensely  bitter)  I  didn't  know  what  charity  meant  then. 
(With  the  resentment  and  despair  of  that  morning  in  his  voice) 
They  wouldn't  even  tell  me  where  he  was.  All  Hell  let 
loose  in  me.  I  dunno  just  what  happened.  Even  now  it's 
all  kind  of  dim  and  misty.  I  didn't  realize  nothin'  until 
I  found  myself  arrested  and  back  in  jail  again. 
I  wouldn't  have  no  lawyer  when  the  case  come  up  in  court. 
I  thought  if  I  stood  up  man  to  man  and  told  the  judge  my 
story  he'd  understand.  I  told  it  bad,  I  guess.  I  was 
still  pretty  young  and  the  sobs  kept  chokin'  in  my  throat 
and  my  hands  was  twistin'  around  my  cap  to  keep  them 
still.  I  told  him  why  I'd  done  the  things  I  done  and  how 
I  meant  to  be  different.  I  thought  he  did  understand,  I 
thought  so.  He  seemed  to  hesitate  a  minute,  and  then  I 
heard  the  sentence  —  two  more  years  for  me,  and  the  boy 
give  to  charities  for  keeps.  (He  rises)  That's  all,  except, 
the  man  who  sentenced  me  was  Judge  Freeman.  (Bringing 
his  hand  down  on  table)  Damn  him  —  damn  him  to  Hell. 
[Exit. 

NANCE  (raises  hand,  stares  vacantly  in  a  state  of  dazed  despair. 
In  a  half  whisper) .  He  don't  know  what  he's  doin'.  He's 
crazy  hatin'  so.  They'll  take  him  away  from  me.  Oh, 
Gawd  !  Oh,  Gawd  !  Ain't  love  stronger'n  hate  ?  Ain't 
there  somethin'  I  can  do  ?  (Looks  at  child)  Poor  little  kid. 
If  I  could,  I'd  steal  ye  away  from  him  and  take  ye  back 
myself.  (Drops  head  on  back  of  chair,  sobbing)  Gawd  ! 
[Quick  indrawn  breath.  Her  face  has  pressed  against  the  mor 
phine  inside  Jim's  coat.  She  draws  it  out,  rises,  goes  to 
door,  locks  it,  takes  down  cups  from  shelf,  gets  whiskey  bottle 
back  of  folding  bed.  She  is  breathing  quickly.  Jim  is  heard 
at  the  door. 

JIM.     Open  the  door  !     D'ye  hear,  open,  I  say. 

NANCE.  Comin'  right  away,  Jim.  (She  empties  contents  of 
box  into  cup  and  pours  out  drinks.  Jim  shakes  door  angrily 
and  kicks  it  with  feet  while  this  is  going  on.  She  opens  door) 
Gee,  yer  in  a  hurry. 


450  DREGS 


JIM  (enters  —  looks  about  suspiciously).  What  did  ye  do  that 
fer? 

NANCE  (whose  manner  is  now  transformed  to  affected  gaiety). 
Why,  I  —  I  didn't  want  to  chance  some  one  walkin'  in  on 
me.  (He  still  looks  suspicious;  she  laughs  up  in  his  face) 
Not  with  twenty  thousand  lyin'  there  dozin'  on  the  couch. 

JIM.  All  right  — I've  phoned  to  Louis.  He'll  be  here 
pretty  soon  to  take  the  boy  in  charge. 

NANCE  (laughing  excitedly,  with  a  touch  of  hysteria) .  I've  been 
thinkin'  over  what  ye  told  me,  and  I've  changed  my  mind. 
The  drinks  is  on  me,  Jim.  See,  I've  already  poured  'em 
out.  (He  starts  to  help  himself)  No,  ye  take  the  cup, 
it  holds  more  liquor.  To  success,  Jim !  And  damn  the 
Judge.  ( They  drink)  Gee,  ye  looks  all  in.  Sit  down  here 
by  the  fire  while  yer  waitin'  for  Louis  and  I'll  stir  up  some 
grub. 

JIM.  It's  a  good  thing  ye  come  to  yer  senses.  I  am  pretty 
nearly  all  in. 

[Jim,  after  pouring  himself  another  drink,  flings  himself  in 
to  a  chair. 

NANCE  (leaning  over  back  of  his  chair).  Close  yer  eyes  and 
rest.  Ye  needn't  never  be  afraid  to  trust  me,  Jim;  I 
wouldn't  never  do  nothin'  that  wasn't  fer  yer  good. 
(Nance  moves  softly  about  the  room,  sets  table,  interrupting 
the  silence  by  low  humming  sounds;  she  glances  frequently 
at  Jim,  waiting  for  the  drug  to  take  effect.  He  begins  to 
drowse  almost  at  once,  rouses  himself  as  though  startled  at 
his  own  intense  languor,  and  then  falls  into  a  heavy  sleep. 
Nance  gets  shawl  from  hook,  goes  to  child  and  shakes  it  gently. 
Child  does  not  stir). 

Wake  up,  kid,  wake  up.  (Whispering)  I'm  goin*  to 
take  ye  back  to  yer  governesses  and  ribboned  nusses, 
to  yer  Jedges  and  satin  canopies.  Wake  up !  Wake  up ! 
Ye  lazy  little  lubber,  ye  don't  expect  me  to  carry  ye 
that  distance  ?  Gawd,  there  ain't  much  time  !  Wake  up  ! 
[Glances  uneasily  at  Jim,  attempts  to  lift  child.  Something 
about  the  limp  form  startles  her.  She  puts  hand  upon  his 


DREGS  451 


face,  draws  back,  her  own  face  blanching,  forces  herself  to 
feel  his  heart.  She  utters  a  piercing  scream;  it  reaches  Jim's 
drugged  senses  and  he  struggles  to  throw  off  the  effect  of  the 
drug.  He  rises,  staggering,  collects  his  blurred  senses. 

JIM.  What  is  it  ?  What  is  the  matter  with  my  head  ?  I'm 
drunk.  (Looks  at  Nance  who  is  standing  in  frozen  attitude, 
staring  at  the  child)  No,  I'm  not,  drink  never  made  me 
feel  like  this.  What  is  it?  I  feel  as  if  I'm  drugged. 
[He  takes  in  the  fact  she  is  wearing  outdoor  clothes,  and  under 
stands.  Lunges  at  her  in  frenzied  rage,  his  hands  at  her 
throat  in  strangling  hold. 

JIM.  Ye  done  this.  Ye  drugged  me.  You've  got  your 
street  things  on.  Ye  meant  to  steal  the  boy,  ye  she  devil, 
ye  female  stool  pidgeon  —  ye  was  going  to  double-cross  me. 

NANCE  (choking  inarticulate).     Jim!  Jim!  the  boy. 

[Points  with  hand.  He  releases  his  hand  so  roughly  that  she 
is  thrown  upon  the  floor.  lie  is  about  to  turn  and  look  at 
the  boy  when  there  is  a  pounding  on  the  door.  Enter  officer 
and  detective. 

JIM  (whipping  out  pistol  from  his  pocket,  insolent,  defiant, 
snarling  like  an  animal  at  bay).  All  right,  ye  found  me. 
Now  take  me. 

DETECTIVE  (easily).  Oh,  I  guess  not  this  time,  Jim.  Just 
give  us  the  boy.  The  Judge  has  a  sentimental  prejudice 
against  arresting  a  father  for  stealing  his  own  child. 
[Jim's  figure  crumples  as  the  truth  dawns  upon  him.  He 
drops  upon  his  knees  beside  the  child,  lifts  the  small  body 
that  is  now  hanging  head  downward,  draws  it  into  his  arms, 
holding  him  close  and  hungrily,  staring  down  into  the  white 
face.  Suddenly  his  face  presses  against  the  child's,  he  sobs 
convulsive,  racking  sobs,  that  tell  the  audience  the  boy  is  dead. 
Nance  drags  herself  like  some  faithful  dog  across  to  him  un 
til  her  head  rests  upon  his  foot. 

The  curtain  slowly  falls. 


BIBLIOGRAPHIES 

1.  THE   LITTLE   THEATRE  MOVEMENT 
IN  AMERICA 

Burleigh,  Louise.     " The  Community  Theatre."     Little,  Brown  &  Company, 

Boston,  1917. 

Cheney,  Sheldon.     "The  Art  Theatre."     Alfred  A.  Knopf,  New  York,  1917. 
Dickinson,  Thomas  H.     "The  Insurgent  Theatre."     B.  W.  Huebsch,  New 

York,  1917. 
Mackay,  Constance  D'Arcy.     "The  Little  Theatre  in  the  United  States." 

Henry  Holt  &  Co.,  New  York,  1917. 

ABROAD 

Bakshy,  Alexander.     "The  Path  of  the  Modern  Russian  Stage."     Palmer 

&  Hayward,  London,  1916. 

Boyd,  E.  A.     "Contemporary  Drama  of  Ireland."     Little,  Brown  &  Com 
pany,  Boston,  1917. 
Carter,  Huntley.     "The  Theatre  of  Max  Reinhardt."     F.  &  C.  Palmer, 

London,  1914. 
Clark,   Barrett  H.     "Four  Plays   of  the  Free  Theatre"    (Introduction). 

Stewart  &  Kidd,  Cincinnati,  1915. 
Dickinson,    Thomas    H.     "Contemporary    Drama    of    England."     Little, 

Brown  &  Company,  Boston,  1917. 

Filon,  Augustin.     "De  Dumas  a  Rostand."     A.  Colin,  Paris,  1911. 
Jullien,   Jean.     "Le  Theatre   Vivant."     G.    Charpentier   &   E.   Fasquele, 

Paris,  1892. 
Long,  R.  E.  C.     "The  People's  Theatre  in  Russia."     Nineteenth  Century, 

Vol.  52,  p.  775. 
Mackay,  Constance  D'Arcy.     "The  Little  Theatre  in  the  United  States" 

(Introduction).     Henry  Holt  &  Co.,  New  York,  1917. 
Thalasso,  A.     "Le  Theatre  Libre."     Mercure  de  France,  Paris,  1909. 

2.   THE   ONE-ACT  PLAY 

Corbin,   John.      "The   One- Act   Play."      New    York  Time*,   May,    1918, 

§  IV,  p.  8,  col.  1. 

Eaton,  Walter  P.     "Washington  Square  Plays"  (Introduction).     Double- 
day,  Page  &  Co.,  Garden  City,  1916. 


454  BIBLIOGRAPHIES 

Gibbs,  Clayton  E.  "The  One- Act  Play."  Theatre,  Vol.  23,  143,  156, 
March,  1916. 

Goodman,  Edward.  "Why  the  One- Act  Play."  Theatre,  Vol.  25,  327, 
June,  1917. 

Hamilton,  Clayton.  "The  One- Act  Play  in  America."  Bookman,  April,  1913 : 
"Studies  in  Stagecraft."  Henry  Holt  &  Co.,  New  York,  1914. 

Lewis,  B.  Roland.  "The  Technique  of  the  One- Act  Play."  John  W.  Luce 
&  Co.,  Boston,  1918. 

Loving,  Pierre.  Introduction  to  " Comedies  of  Words",  by  Arthur  Schnitz- 
ler.  Stewart  &  Kidd,  Cincinnati,  1917. 

Middle  ton,  George.  "The  Neglected  One- Act  Play."  Dramatic  Mirror, 
January  31,  1913,  pp.  13-14,  New  York. 

Moses,  Montrose  J.  "The  American  Dramatist."  Comment  on  the  one- 
act  play.  Little,  Brown  &  Company,  Boston,  1917. 

Underbill,  John  Garrett.  "The  One- Act  Play  in  Spain."  Drama,  Feb 
ruary,  1917. 

3.  BIBLIOGRAPHIES  OF  ONE-ACT  PLAYS 

Actable  One-Act  Plays.     Chicago  Public  Library,  1916. 

Cheney,  Sheldon.     "The  Art  Theatre."     (Appendix:    Plays   produced  at 

the  Arts  and  Crafts  Theatre,  Detroit.)     Alfred  A.  Knopf,  New 

York,  1917. 
Clapp,  John  Mantel.     "Plays  for  Amateurs."     Drama  League  of  America, 

Chicago,  1915. 
Clark,  Barrett  H.     "How  to  Produce  Amateur  Plays."     Little,  Brown  & 

Company,  1917. 
Dickinson,  Thomas  H.     "The  Insurgent  Theatre."     (Appendix:    List  of 

plays  produced  by  Little  Theatres.)     B.  W.  Huebsch,  New  York, 

1917. 
Drummond,  A.  M.     "Fifty  One- Act  Plays."     Quarterly  Journal  of  Public 

Speaking,  Vol.  1,  p.  234.     1915. 
Drummond,  A.  M.     "  One- Act  Plays  for  Schools  and  Colleges."     Education, 

Vol.  4,  p.  372.     1918. 
Mackay,  Constance  D' Arcy.     "  The  Little  Theatre  in  the  United  States." 

(Appendix:  List  of  plays  produced  by  Little  Theatres.)     Henry 

Holt  &  Co.,  New  York,  1917. 
Riley,  Alice  C.  D.     "The  One- Act  Play  —  Study  Course."     Drama  League 

Monthly,  February-April,  1918,  Washington,  D.C. 
Selective  List  of  Christmas  Plays.     Drama  League  Calendar,  November  15, 

1918.     New  York. 
Selected  List  of  Patriotic  Plays  and  Pageants  Suitable  for  Amateurs.    Drama 

League  Calendar,  October  1,  1918.     New  York. 
Selective  List  of  Plays  for  Amateurs.     Drama  League,  Boston,  1915. 


BIBLIOGRAPHIES 


455 


4.   SELECTIVE  LIST  OF  AVAILABLE  ONE-ACT 
PLAYS  BY  AMERICAN  AUTHORS 


Akins,   Zoe. 


Aldis,  Mary. 


(In 
Andrews,  Kenneth. 


Bates,  W.  O. 


Beach,  Lewis. 


Belasco,  David. 


Block,  Bertram 


Bodenheim, 


Bottomley,    Gordon. 


Boyce,  Neith. 


Titles  designated  by  f  are  collections. 

"Did   It  Really   Happen?"     Sophisticated   drama.     Smart 

Set,  Vol.  52,  343.     New  York,  1917. 
"The  Magical   City."     Drama  in  free  verse.     Forum,  Vol. 

55,  507.     New  York,  May,  1916. 
"Such  a  Charming  Young  Man."     Sophisticated   comedy. 

Smart  Set,  Vol.  48,  67.     New  York,  1916. 
"Mrs.  Pat  and  the  Law"  (included  in  this  volume). 
"The  Drama  Class  of  Tankaha,  Nevada."    Satirical  comedy. 
"  Extreme  Unction."     Serious  play  on  spiritism. 
"The  Letter."     Play  of  ideas  in  which  real  and  false  love 

are  demonstrated. 

"Temperament."  Humorous  play  on  the  subject  of  ar 
tistic  temperaments. 

Plays  for  Small  Stages."  f     Duffield,  New  York,  1915.) 
"America  Passes  By."     Humorous   sketch.     Walter 
Baker  &  Co.,  Boston,  1918;    (In  "Plays  of  the  Har 
vard  Dramatic'Club."  t     Brentano,  New  York,  1918.) 
'  Polly  of  Pogue's  Run."     Play  of  Civil  War  times  in  Indiana. 

Frank  Shay,  New  York,  1917. 

"The  Clod."  Character  drama.  (In  "Washington  Square 
Plays."  f  Doubleday,  Page  &  Co.,  Garden  City, 
1916.) 

Madame  Butterfly."     Drama  in  the  life  of  a  Japanese. 
(In  "Representative  American  Plays",  f  edited  by 
A.  H.  Quinn,  p.  649.     The  Century  Co.,  New  York, 
1917.) 
The  Maiden  Over  the  Wall."     Fantasy.     Drama,  Vol. 

8,  436.     Chicago,  1918. 

Maxwell.  "  The  Master  Poisoner  "  (in  collaboration  with  Ben 
Hecht).  A  poetic  play  in  which  the  woman  is  the 
master  poisoner. 

"  Poet's  Heart."     An  idyll  of  the  poet's  heart. 
(In     "  Minna    and    Myself,"  f    Pagan    Publishing    Co., 
New  York,  1918.) 

"Laodice  and  Danae"."  A  poetic  play,  laid  in 
Smyrna,  246  B.C.  Four  Seas  Publishing  Co;,  Boston, 
1916. 

The  Two  Sons."     Drama.     Frank  Shay,  New  York,  1916. 
A  Winter's  Night."     Drama.     Trend,  Vol.  7,  524-^30. 
New  York,  1914. 


456  BIBLIOGRAPHIES 

Briggs,     Caroline.     "One  a  Day."     Comedy.     (In  " Morningside  Plays."  f 

Frank  Shay,  New  York,  1917.) 
Brock,    Howard.     "The   Bank   Account."     Serious   play    of   money   and 

marriage. 
(In  "  Plays  of  the  Harvard  Dramatic  Club."  f     Brentano, 

New  York,  1918.) 
Brown,  Alice.     "Dr.  Auntie."     Serious. 

"Joint  Owners  in  Spain."     Comedy. 

"The  Loving  Cup."     Play  of  mingled  pathos  and  humor. 

"Melia's  Tramp."     Play  of  mingled  pathos  and  humor. 

"Milly  Dear."     Serious. 

"The  Web."     Serious.     Norman  Lee  Swartout,  Summit, 

N.  J. 
Browne,  Maurice.     "King  of  the  Jews."     Passion  play.    Drama,  Vol.  6, 

496.     Chicago,  1916. 

Bryant,  Louise.     "The  Game."     Morality.     Frank  Shay,  New  York,  1916. 
Bynner,  Witter.     "The  Little  King."     Story  of  the  French  Revolution. 
Forum,  Vol.  51,  605.     New  York,  April,  1914;   Mit 
chell  Kennerley,  New  York,  1914. 
"Tiger."     Drama  of  the  underworld.     Forum,  Vol.  49, 

522.  New  York,  May,  1913. 
Cowan,  Sada.     "In  the  Morgue."     Sordid  drama.     Forum,  Vol.  55,  339. 

New  York,  April,  1916. 

"Sintram  of  Skagerrak"  (included  in  this  volume). 
"The  State  Forbids."     Serious  presentation  of  the  theme  of 
birth  control.     Mitchell  Kennerley,  New  York,  1915. 
Cronyn,    George    W.     "The    Smdbar    Queen."     Crass    melodrama.     E. 

Arens,  New  York,  1918. 
Dargan,  0.  T.     "Woods  of  Ida."     Masque  of  forty  years  before  the  Fall  of 

Troy.     Century,  Vol.  74,  590-604,  August,  1907. 
Davies,  Mary  Caroline.     "The  Slave  with  Two  Faces."     Morality.     E. 

Arens,  New  York,  1918. 
Davis,  R.  H.,  and  Sheehan,  P.  P.     "Efficiency."     Drama  of  the  War. 

George  H.  Doran,  New  York,  1917. 

Dell,  Floyd.     "The  Angel  Intrudes."     In  which  a  man  is  saved  by  his 
guardian  angel  from  running  away  with  a  flirt.     E. 
Arens,  New  York,  1918. 
"King  Arthur's  Socks."     Sophisticated  farce.     Frank  Shay, 

New  York,  1916. 
"A   Long  Time   Ago."     Fantasy.     Forum,  Vol.   51,   261. 

New  York,  February,  1914. 

Dickinson,  Thomas  H.     "In  Hospital."     Serious  study.     (In  "Wisconsin 
Plays,"  f  Vol.  I.     B.  W.  Huebsch,  New  York,  1914.) 
Dix,  Beulah.     "Allison's  Lad"  (included  in  this  volume). 


BIBLIOGRAPHIES  457 

"The  Hundredth  Trick."  Drama  at  the  time  of  the  reign 
of  Elizabeth. 

"The  Weakest  Link."  Laid  in  Brittany  during  the  Hun 
dred  Years'  War. 

"  The  Snare  and  the  Fowler."  Drama  during  the  early  days 
of  the  French  Republic. 

"The  Dark  of  the  Dawn."  Drama  of  the  Thirty  Years' 
War. 

(In  "Allison's  Lad  and  Other  Martial  Interludes."  f  Henry 
Holt  &  Co.,  New  York,  1910.) 

"Clemency."     Serious  play  on  the  theme  of  war. 
"The  Enemy."     Serious  play  of  war. 

"The  Glorious  Game."  Serious  play  of  war.  American 
School  Peace  League,  Boston,  1916. 

"A  Legend  of  St.  Nicholas."     Poetic  drama  for  children. 

Poet  Lore,  Vol.  25,  473.     Boston,  1914. 

Dreiser,  Theodore.     "The  Dream."     Play  of  the  natural  and  supernatural. 
Seven  Arts,  Vol.  2,  319.     New  York,  1917. 

"The  Girl  in  the  Coffin."     Naturalistic  play  of  ideas. 
"The  Blue  Sphere."     Play  of  ideas  upon  the  natural  and 

the  supernatural. 
"Laughing  Gas."     Play  of  ideas  upon  the  natural  and  the 

supernatural. 
"In  the  Dark."     Play  of  ideas  upon  the  natural  and  the 

supernatural. 
"The  Spring  Recital."     Supernatural  play  on  the  power 

of  music. 
"The  Light  in  the  Window."     Thoughtful  presentation  of 

the   action    which   passes    before    a    house    in    the 

city. 

"Old  Rag-Picker. "     Serious  play. 
(In  "Plays  of  the  Natural  and  Supernatural."  f     John  Lane 

Co.,  New  York,  1916.) 
Field,  Rachel  L.     "Rise  up,  Jennie  Smith."     Liberty  Loan  propaganda. 

Samuel  French,  New  York,  1918. 
"Three  Pills  in  a  Bottle."     Moral  fantasy  in  which  real 

souls  appear.     (In  "47  Workshop  Plays. "f     Bren- 

tano,  New  York,  1918.) 
Fillmore,  J.  E.     "War."     Melodrama.     Poet  Lore,  Vol.  25.  523.     Boston, 

1914. 

Flexner,  Hortense.     "Voices"  (included  in  this  volume). 
"47  Workshop,  Plays  of  the"  f : 

Field,  Rachel  L.     "  Three  Pills  in  a  Bottle. " 


458  BIBLIOGRAPHIES 

Osborne,  Hubert.     "The  Good  Men  Do." 
Pillot,  Eugene.     "Two  Crooks  and  a  Lady." 
Prosser,   William  L.     "Free  Speech."     (See  Authors  for 
descriptions  of  plays.)     Brentano,  New  York,  1918. 
Frank,  Florence  Kiper.     "Jael."     Poetic  drama  of  the  Jewish  life.     Chicago 

Little  Theatre,  1914. 
Freybe,  C.  E.     "In  Garrison."     Drama  of  garrison  life  at  Christmas  time. 

Poet  Lore,  Vol.  26,  499.     Boston,  1815. 

Froome,  John  Redhead,  Jr.     "Listening."     Play  built  about  a  tense  situ 
ation.     Poet  Lore,  Vol.  28,  422.     Boston,  1917. 

Galbraith,  Esther.     "The  Brink  of  Silence"  (included  in  this  volume). 
Gale,     Zona.     "Neighbors."     Comedy    of    rural    life.       (In    "Wisconsin 
Plays, "  f  Vol.  1.     B.  W.  Huebsch,  New  York,  1914.) 
Garland,  Robert.     "At  Night  All  Cats  Are  Gray."     Melodrama.     Smart 

Set,  Vol.  48,  247.     New  York,  1916. 
"  Double  Miracle."     Mystical  drama  of  love  and  religion 
in  Sicily.     Forum,  Vol.  53,  511.     New  York,  April, 
1915. 
Gerstenberg,  Alice.     "Beyond"  (included  in  this  volume). 

"Overtones."  Unusual  play  involving  the  actors  and 
their  subconscious  selves.  (In  "Washington  Square 
Plays."  f  Doubleday,  Page  &  Co.,  Garden  City, 
1916.) 

Gilman,   Thornton.     "We    Live    Again."     Serious    play    about    religion. 
(In  "Wisconsin  Plays ",f  Vol.   2,  B.  W.   Huebsch, 
1918.) 
Glaspell,  Susan.     "Close  the  Book."     Farce. 

"The  People."     In  which  "the  banner  of  the  ideal"  is 
flown  in  a  magazine  office.     Frank  Shay,  New  York, 
1918. 
"Trifles."     Drams,  inherent  in  trifles.     Frank  Shay,  New 

York,  1916. 
Glaspell,  Susan,  and  Cook,  George  Cram.     "Suppressed  Desires  "  (included 

in  this  volume). 

Goodman,  Edward.     "EugenicaHy    Speaking."    Farce.     (In "  Washington 
Square  Plays."  f    Doubleday,  Page   &   Co.,  Garden 
City,  1916.) 
Goodman,  Kenneth  Sawyer.     "Dust  of  the  Road."     Serious  play  with 

religious  theme. 

"The  Game  of  Chess."     Serious  play  set  in  Russia. 
"Barbara."     Satirical  farce. 
"Ephraim  and  the  Winged  Bear."     Fantasy. 
"Back  of  the  Yards."     Serious  play  of  Chicago. 
*  "  Dancing  Dolls."     Dolls  in  their  off-stage  moments. 


BIBLIOGRAPHIES  459 

"A  Man  Can  Only  Do  His  Best."     Farce. 
(In  "Quick  Curtains."  f     Stage  Guild,  Chicago,  1915.) 
Goodman,  Kenneth  Sawyer,  and  Ben  Hecht.     "The  Hero  of  Santa  Maria." 
Farce  of  a  country  town.     Stage  Guild,  Chicago,  1916. 

Goodman,   Kenneth  Sawyer,  and  Thomas  Wood  Stevens.     "Holbein  in 
Blackfriars."     Comedy  of  the  sixteenth  century  in 
England.     Stage  Guild,  Chicago,  1913. 
Gould,  Felix.     "  The  Marsh  Maiden,"  "  The  Stranger,"  "  In  the  Marshes." 

Plays  of  mood  and  symbol. 
(In   "  The  Marsh  Maiden   and  Other  Plays,"  f  Four  Seas 

Publishing  Co.,  Boston,  1918.) 

Halman,  Doris.     "Will  o'  the  Wisp  "  (included  in  this  volume). 
"Harvard  Dramatic  Club,  Plays  of  the  "  :  f 

Hawkridge,  Winifred.     "  The  Florist  Shop. " 
Brock,  Howard.     "The  Bank  Account." 
Smith,  Rita  C.     "The  Rescue." 

Andrews,  Kenneth.  "America  Passes  By."  (See  Authors 
for  descriptions  of  plays.)  Brentano,  New  York, 
1918. 

Hawkridge,  Winifred.  "The  Florist  Shop."  Humorous  play  of  life  as 
seen  in  a  florist  shop.  (In  "Plays  of  the  Harvard 
Dramatic  Club."  f  Brentano,  New  York,  1918.) 

Hecht,  Ben,  and  Kenneth  Sawyer  Goodman.  "The  Wonder  Hat"  (in 
cluded  in  this  volume). 

Helburn,  Theresa.  "Enter  the  Hero."  Farce,  but  embodying  a  psycho 
logical  truth.  E.  Arens,  New  York,  1918. 

Hoffman,  Phoebe.     "Martha's  Mourning"  (included  in  this  volume). 
Ilsley,   S.   Marshall.     "The  Feast  of  the  Holy  Innocents."     Comedy  of 
rural  life.     (In  "Wisconsin  Plays  ",  f  Vol.  2.  B.  W. 
Huebsch,  New  York,  1918.) 
Jex,    John.     "  Violet  Souls."     A  satire  upon  the  affinity  theme. 

"  The  Nest."     A  serious  play  in  which  the  Doctor  censures 

the  husband's  immorality. 

"  Mr.  Willoughly  Calls."  A  serious  play  in  which  opportu 
nity  to  marry  the  man  she  loves  does  not  come  to  the 
woman  a  second  time. 

"The  Unnecessary  Atom."  A  tragedy  in  which  a  man's 
hopes,  ambitions,  and  achievements  collapse  with  the 
disintegration  of  his  home  life. 

(In  "  Passion  Playlets  ",  f  Cornhill  Company,  Detroit,  1918.) 

Jones,  Howard  Mumford.     "The  Shadow."     Arabesque.     (In  "Wisconsin 

Plays",  f  Vol.  2.     B.  W.  Huebsch,  New  York,  1918.) 

Kallen,  Horace  M.  "  Book  of  Job."  Tragedy  of  the  Book  of  Job.  Moffatt. 
Yard  &  Co.,  New  York,  1918. 


460  BIBLIOGRAPHIES 

Kemp,  Harry.     "The  Prodigal  Son."     Comedy  of  the  prodigal  son.     Smart 

Set,  Vol.  52,  83.     New  York,  1917. 
Kennedy,    Charles    Rann.     "The    Terrible    Meek."     Religious    drama. 

Harper  &  Bros.,  New  York,  1912. 
"The     Necessary     Evil."      Sentimental     melodrama. 

Harper  &  Bros.,  New  York,  1913. 
King,   Pendleton.     "Cocaine."     Sordid  melodrama.     Frank  Shay,    New 

York,  1918. 

Kinkead,  Cleves.  "The  Fourflushers."  Farce  of  New  York  life.  Nor 
man  Lee  Swartout,  Summit,  N.  J.,  1918. 

Kreymborg,  Alfred.     "When  the  Willow  Nods."     Dance-play. 
"Jack's  House."     Cubic-play. 
"Lima  Beans  "  (included  in  this  volume). 
"Blue  and  Green."     Shadow-play. 
*  "Manikin  and  Minikin."     Bisque-play. 

"People  Who  Die."     Dream-play. 
(In   "Plays  for  Poem  Mimes."  f    The  Other  Press,  New 

York,  1918.) 
Langner,  Lawrence.     "Another  Way  Out."     Sophisticated  farce.     Frank 

Shay,  New  York,  1916. 
"Wedded."      Serious   study.      Little   Review,   Vol.    1, 

No.  8,  p.  8.     Chicago,  1914. 

"The  Broken  Image."  Wherein  the  image  of  Christ  is 
broken  by  Von  Ludendorf .  Egmont  Arens,  New 
York,  1918. 

Leland,  Robert  DeCamp.  "Purple  Youth."  Satire  in  which  two  artist- 
lovers  trap  the  "Puritan."  Four  Seas  Co.,  Boston, 
1918. 

Leonard,  William  Ellery.     "Glory  of  the  Morning."     Play  of  Indian  life. 
(In  "Wisconsin  Plays,"  f  Vol.  1.     B.  W.  Huebsch, 
New  York,  1914.) 
Levinger,  Elmer.     "The  Burden."     Serious  play  of  Jewish  life.     Walter 

Baker  &  Co.,  Boston,  1918. 

Macdonald,  Zillah.     "Light  Along  the  Rails."     Drama  of  the  New  York 

subway.     Touchstone,  Vol.  3,  229.     New  York,  1918. 

"Markheim."       Dramatization.       (In     "Morningside 

Plays."  f    Frank  Shay,  New  York,  1917.) 

Mackay,  Constance  D'Arcy.  "Festival  of  Pomona."  Story  of  the  Greek 
myth  of  Pomona  and  Vertumnus.  Drama,  Vol.  5, 
161.  Chicago,  1915. 

"The  Gift  of  Time."     Masque  for  the  New  Year. 
"A  Masque  of  Conservation."     Of  forests  and  of  rivers. 
"The  Masque  of  Pomona."     Masque  for  spring  or  autumn. 
"The  Sun  Goddess."     Masque  of  Old  Japan. 


BIBLIOGRAPHIES  461 

(In  "The  Forest  Princess  and  Other  Masques."  f    Henry 
Holt  &  Co.,  New  York,  1916.) 

"The  Beau  of  Bath";    "The  Silver  Lining";    "Ashes  of 

Roses  " ;     "  Gretna   Green  " ;     "  Counsel  Retained  "  ; 

"The  Prince  of  Court  Painters."     One-act  plays  of 

18th-century  life. 
(In   "The   Beau   of   Bath    and    Other    One- Act   Plays."  f 

Henry  Holt  &  Co.,  New  York,  1915.) 

"  The  Pioneers  " ;  "  The  Fountain  of  Youth  " ;  "  May  Day  " ; 
"The  Vanishing  Race";     "The  Passing  of  Hiawatha"; 
"Dame    Greel    o'    Portland  Town."     Historical    pageant 
plays.     (In  "Plays  of  the  Pioneers."!    Harper    & 
Bros.,  New  York,  1915.) 
MacKaye,  Percy.     "Chuck."     Orchard  fantasy. 

"Gettysburg."     Woodshed  commentary. 

"The  Antick."     Wayside  sketch. 

"The  Cat-Boat."     Fantasy  for  music. 

"Sam  Average"  (included  in  this  volume). 

(In  "Yankee    Fantasies."!     Duffield  &  Co.,    New  York, 

1912.) 
Mapes,  Victor.     "Flower  of  Yeddo."     Noh  of  old  Japan.     Samuel  French, 

New  York,  1906. 
Marks,  Jeannette  A.     "The   Merry,  Merry   Cuckoo"    (included   in   this 

volume) . 

"The  Deacon's  Hat."     Play  of  peasant  religion  in  Wales. 
"Welsh    Honeymoon."     Play    of    Welsh    superstition    on 

Allhallows'  Eve. 
(In  "Three  Welsh  Plays."  f     Little,   Brown  &  Company, 

Boston,  1917.) 

Matthews,  Elva  DePue.     "Hattie  "  (included  in  this  volume). 
McFadden,  Elizabeth.     "Why  the  Chimes  Rang."     Poetic  story  of  Christ 
mas  and  the  Christ  Child.     Samuel  French,  New 
York,   1915. 
Middleton,    George.     "Back    of    the    Ballot."     Woman    suffrage    farce 

Samuel  French,  New  York,  1915. 
"Criminals."     Play  about  marriage.     B.  W.  Huebsch, 
New  York,  1915. 

"  Embers  " ;  "  The  Failures  " ; "  The  Gargoyle  " ;  "  In  His 
House";  "Madonna";  "The  Man  Masterful." 
Serious  plays  of  contemporary  life. 

(In  "Embers  and  Other  One- Act  Plays."  f  Henry 
Holt  &  Co.,  New  York,  1911.) 


462  BIBLIOGRAPHIES 

"The  Groove";  "The  Unborn";  "Circles";  "A  Good 
Woman"  (included  in  this  volume);  "The 
Black  Tie."  Serious  plays  of  contemporary  life. 

(In  "Possession  and  Other  One- Act  Plays."  f  Henry 
Holt  &  Co.,  New  York,  1915.) 

"The  Reason."  Serious  play.  Smart  Set,  Vol.  53,  89. 
New  York,  1917. 

"  Tradition  " ;  "  On  Bail " ;  "  Their  Wife  " ;  "  Waiting  " ; 
"The  Cheat  of  Pity  " ;  "  Mothers."     Serious  plays 
of  contemporary  life. 
(In   "Tradition  and  Other  One- Act  Plays."  f    Henry 

Holt  &  Co.,  New  York,  1913.) 

Moeller,  Philip.  "Helena's  Husband";  "A  Roadhouse  in  Arden"; 
"Sisters  of  Susannah";  "The  Little  Supper"; 
"Pokey."  Burlesques. 

(In  "Five  Somewhat  Historical    Plays."  f      Alfred  A. 
Knopf,  New  York,  1918.) 

"Two  Blind  Beggars  and  One  Less  Blind."     Symbolic 

play.     E.  Arens,  New  York,  1918. 
"  Morningside  Plays  "  f : 

DePue,  Elva.  "Hattie." 
Briggs,  C.  "One  a  Day." 
Macdonald,  Zellah.  "Markheim." 

Reizenstein,  Elmer  L.     "The  Home  of  the  Free."     (See 
Authors    for   descriptions    of   plays.)     Frank  Shay, 
New  York,  1917. 
Mosher,   John   Chapin.     "Sauce  for  the  Emperor."     Burlesque.     Frank 

Shay,  New  York,  1916. 
O'Neill,  Eugene  G.     "Before  Breakfast."     Tragedy.     Frank  Shay,  New 

York,  1916. 
"Bound  East  for  Cardiff."     Tale  of  the  sea.     Frank 

Shay,  New  York,  1916. 
"In  the  Zone  "  (included  in  this  volume). 
"  The  Long  Voyage  Home."    Serious  play  of  seamen  on 
land.     Smart  Set,  Vol.  53,  83.     New  York,  1917. 
"The  Moon  of  the  Caribbees."     Seamen  in  the  fore 
castle.     Smart  Set,  Vol.  55,  73.     New  York,  1918. 

"Thirst."     Impressionistic  drama  on  the  theme  of 

thirst. 

"The  Web."     Melodramatic  episode  of  sordid  life. 
"Warnings."     Dramatic  episodes  of  the  sea. 
"Fog."     Symbolic  play  of  a  life-boat  in  the  open  sea. 
"Recklessness."    A  drama  of  love  and  marriage.    (In 


BIBLIOGR  APHIES  463 

"Thirst    and    Other   One- Act    Plays."  f     Gor- 
ham  Press,  Boston,  1914.) 
Oppenheim,   James.     "Night."     Thoughtful,   poetic   play   in   free   verse. 

E.  Arens,  New  York,  1918. 
"Prelude."     (To  Creation.)     Mystical  and  pictorial 

play  in  verse.     Seven  Arts,  Vol.  1,  240,  1917. 

Osborne,  Hubert.  "The  Good  Men  Do."  In  which  Shakespeare's  plays 
are  interred  with  his  bones.  (In  "47  Workshop 
Plays."  f  Brentano,  New  York,  1918.) 

O'Shea,  Monica  Barrie.  "The  Rushlight."  Drama  laid  in  Ireland  during 
the  Rebellion.  Drama,  Vol.  7,  602.  Chicago,  1917. 

Peabody,    Josephine   Preston.      "Fortune   and   Men's   Eyes."     A  tale  of 
Shakespeare.     Samuel    French,    New    York,    1917. 
"The  Wings."     Poetic  drama  of  Northumberland  in  700 
A.D.     Harper,    Vol.    110,    947.     New   York,    1905; 
Poet  Lore,  Vol.  25,  352.     Boston,  1914. 
Pillot,  Eugene.     "Hunger  "  (included  in  this  volume). 

"Two  Crooks  and  a  Lady."  Unusual  presentation  of 
crook  melodrama.  (In  "47  Workshop  Plays."  f 
Brentano,  New  York,  1918.) 

Prosser,  William  L.     "Free  Speech."     Farce  on  law  and  order  in  Russia. 
(In  "47  Workshop  Plays."  f     Brentano,  New  York, 

1918.) 
Provincetown   Plays,   Series    1  f : 

O'Neill,  Eugene  G.     "Bound  East  for  Cardiff." 
Bryant,  Louise.     "The  Game." 
Dell,  Floyd.     "  King  Arthur's  Socks." 

Series  2.     Glaspell,  Susan,  and  George  Cram  Cook.     "  Sup 
pressed  Desires." 
Series  3. 

Boyce,  Neith.     "The  Two  Sons." 
Kreymborg,  Alfred.     "Lima  Beans." 
O'Neill,  Eugene  G.     "Before  Breakfast." 
(See  Authors  for  descriptions  of  plays.)     Frank  Shay,  New 

York. 

Reizenstein,  Elmer  L.  "The  Home  of  the  Free."  Sophisticated  comedy. 
(In  "Morningside  Plays."  f  Frank  Shay,  New 
York,  1917.) 

Rice,  Cale  Young.     "Giorgione."     Drama  of  love  in  Italy. 
"Arduin."     Drama  of  love  in  Egypt. 
"O-Ume's  Gods."     Love  drama  of  Japan. 
"The  Immortal  Lure."     Love  drama  in  India. 
(In  "The  Immortal  Lure  and  Other  Poetic  Dramas."  f 
Doubleday,  Page  &  Co.,  Garden  City,  1911.) 


464  BIBLIOGRAPHIES 

"  A  Night  in  Avignon."     Poetic  drama  of  love  and  mar 
riage. 
(In  "Collected  Plays  and  Poems."  f    Doubleday,  Page 

&  Co.,  Garden  City,  1915.) 

Rice,  Wallace,  and  Thomas  Wood  Stevens.     "Chaplet  of  Pan."     Masque 
of  a  May  Day  in  the  15th  century.     Stage  Guild, 
Chicago,  1912. 
Rogers,     Robert    Emrnons.     "Behind    a    WTatteau    Picture."     Fantasy. 

Norman  Lee  Swartout,  Summit,  N.  J. 
Sherry,  Laura.     "On  the  Pier."     Serious  play.     (In  "Wisconsin  Plays ",f 

Vol.  2.     B.  W.  Huebsch,  New  York,  1918.) 

Smith,  Rita  C.  "The  Rescue."  Serious  play  in  which  mind  rules  matter. 
(In  "Plays  of  the  Harvard  Dramatic  Club."  f  Bren- 
tano,  New  York,  1918.) 

Spencer,  Frances  Pemberton.     "Dregs  "  (included  in  this  volume). 
Stevens,  Thomas  Wood,  and  Kenneth  Sawyer  Goodman.     "The  Daimio's 

Head."     Masque  of  old  Japan. 
"The  Masque  of  Montezuma." 
"Caesar's  Gods."     Byzantine  masque. 
"Rainald  and  the  Red  Wolf."     Mediaeval  masque  of  the 

Shrovetide  miracle. 
"The  Masque  of  Quetzal's  Bowl." 
(In  " Masques  of  East  and  West."  f     Vaughan  and  Gomme, 

New   York,,  1914.) 
Stevens,    Thomas    Wood,    and    Kenneth   Sawyer   Goodman.     "Ryland " 

(included  in  this  volume). 
Stratton,    Clarence.     "The    Coda."1    Serious  play.     Drama,   Vol.  8,  215. 

Chicago,  1918. 

Tarkington,  Booth.  "  Beauty  and  the  Jacobin."  Interlude  of  the  French 
Revolution.  Harper,  Vol.  125,  390.  New  York, 
1912;  Harper  &  Bros.,  New  York,  1912. 

Torrence,  Ridgely,  "The  Rider  of  Dreams."     Poetic  drama  of  negro  life. 
"  Granny  Maumee."     Poetic  tragedy  of  negro  life. 
"Simon  the  Cyrenian."     Biblical  play. 
(In  "The  Rider  of  Dreams,  and  Other  One- Act  Plays."  f 

Macmillan,  New  York,  1917.) 

Walker,    Stuart.     "The    Trimplet";     "Nevertheless";     "The    Medicine 
Show";    "Six  Who  Pass  While  the  Lentils  Boil" 
(included  in  this  volume).     Fantasies. 
(In  "Portmanteau  Plays."  f    Stewart  &  Kidd,  Cincinnati, 

1917.) 
"Washington  Square  Plays" f: 

Beach,  Lewis.     "The  Clod." 

Goodman,  Edward.     "Eugenically  Speaking." 


BIBLIOGRAPHIES  465 

Gerstenberg,  Alice.     "Overtones." 

Moeller,  Philip.     "Helena's  Husband."     (See  Authors  for 
descriptions   of   plays.)     Doubleday,    Page   &   Co., 
Garden  City,  1918. 
Wellman,  Rita.     "Funiculi  Funicula  "  (included  in  this  volume). 

"The  Lady  with  the  Mirror."     Allegory.     Drama,  Vol.  8, 

299.     Chicago,  1918. 
Wentworth,    Marion    Craig.     "War    Brides."     Play    of    the    War.     The 

Century  Co.,  New  York,  1915. 
Wilde,  Percival.     "Confessional."     Serious  play. 

"The  Villain  in  the  Piece."     Dramatic  situation 
"According  to  Darwin."     Naturalistic  play  of  sordid  life. 
"A  Question  of  Morality  "  (included  in  this  volume). 
"The  Beautiful  Story."     Thoughtful  play. 
(In  "Confessional  and  Other  American  Plays."  f     Henry 
Holt  &  Co.,  New  York,  1916.) 

"Dawn."     Drama  of  the  dawn  after  death. 
"The  Noble  Lord."     Artificial  comedy. 
"The  Traitors."     Surprise  drama. 
"A  House  of  Cards."     Surprise  play. 
"Playing  with  Fire."     Comedy. 
"The  Finger  of  God."     Serious. 

(In  "Dawn  and  Other  One-Act  Plays."  f  Henry  Holt  & 
Co.,  New  York,  1915.) 

"Mothers  of  Men";  "Pawns";  "In  the  Ravine";  "Val 
kyrie."  Plays  giving  different  viewpoints  on  the 
War. 

(In  "The  Unseen  Host,  and  Other  War  Plays."  f     Little, 

Brown  &  Company,  Boston,  1917.) 
"Wisconsin  Plays."  f     Series  1 : 

Gale,  Zona.     "  Neighbors. " 

Dickinson,  Thomas  H.     "In  Hospital." 

Leonard,  W.  E.  "Glory  of  the  Morning."  (See  Authors 
for  descriptions  of  plays.)  B.  W.  Huebsch,  New 
York,  1914. 

Series  2 : 

Ilsley,  Marshall.     "The  Feast  of  the  Holy  Innocents." 

Sherry,  Laura.     "On  the  Pier." 

Jones,  Howard  Mumford.     "The  Shadow." 

Gilman,  Thornton.     "We  Live  Again."     (See  Authors  for 
descriptions  of  plays.)     B.  W.  Huebsch,  New  York, 
1918. 
Wolff,  Oscar  M.     "Where  But  in  America  "  (included  in  this  volume). 


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